Arrow: Green & Black
by Bloodsong 13T
Summary: Oliver discovers his best friend's father is his deadliest enemy. Malcolm discovers that his worst enemy is his best friend's son. Can two men on different paths reach the same goal of saving their city? Canon and SPOILERS for "Darkness at the Edge of Town" and prior; AU thereafter.
1. The Beginning of the End

**The Beginning of the End**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: none

Violence: not really

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note: (updated 7/15/13)  
_

This is the beginning of an Alternate Universe story for Arrow, which picks up directly after "Darkness at the Edge of Town." I know where the story is going now. There will be three parts:  
-The Beginning- this part, wherein all the characters adjust to their new situation.  
-The Middle- which will remain status quo, while the new team handles various missions and objectives together. (I am NOT going to write this part! I'm sorry, I suck at plots, and I have other projects I need to work on.) (Not to be egotistical, but if anybody wants to write for these "episodes," you're more than welcome to!)  
-The End- the sort of series finale, in which things will change yet again, and there will be some sort of closure for situations and events. I know that sounds vague, and the "end" will still be somewhat open-ended.

Note: references to prior events may not match canon. (This happens because I've only seen each episode once (usually) back when they came out, and I have to rely on my memory.)

(Totally useless author notes you can ignore:)

This happened because I missed a week of Arrow, so I caught "Darkness at the Edge of Town" when "Sacrifice" was already out. But after the cliffhanger of "Darkness," I didn't watch the next episode. (I'm masochistic like that.) While waiting another week, I asked my Brain what Merlyn might do next. And my Brain said, he's going to have a little talk with Oliver.

The next thing I know, my Brain has absconded to Tijuana for a week to write that little talk, and others that follow it. I hope you enjoy it. (And I hope Arrow doesn't get cancelled, cuz Every Single Freekin show that I start to really enjoy in gets cancelled!)

* * *

**The Beginning of the End**

===#===

Oliver's world reeled. There was darkness, a sharp blade of yellow light, pain. His whole body ached, his head throbbed. Was he upright or lying down? He tried to get his limbs to move. They were too heavy. He tried to get his eyes open. He couldn't see, couldn't focus. He tried to order his mind. His thoughts, his memory, they spun tantalizingly out of reach.

He felt a sharp pain in his arm, needle sharp. "No," he moaned, flashes of The Count's merciless smile crossing his vision.

"It's all right; it's just a sedative," said a calm voice. Caring. "Oliver, you've been hurt very badly."

His head lolled towards the voice. He should recognize it. "Wh...?"

"Here." Something hard, smooth, curved, pressed against his lips. A glass. Oliver gratefully sucked on the cool water. "You can rest in a moment, but first I need to know who you were working with."

"Digg?" His eyes just wouldn't open. There was a blur standing before him, a man, that was all he could make out.

===#===

Malcolm Merlyn drew his lower lip slowly through his teeth. A nickname wasn't much to go on. "Who is it that's been working with you?" he pressed gently. "What's his name?"

"Digg?" Oliver mumbled incoherently. "Where...?"

"I know he's been working with you, doubling as the Vigilante. He could be in grave danger." Or at least Malcolm hoped so. He'd sent his private guard to the warehouse to make sure of it. Nevertheless, should he bolt...

"Diggs? Diggle?"

Now that jogged something, wasn't it a Mr. Diggle who had been driving Moira around one week? Spying on her, just before she'd been attacked. Oliver's bodyguard. Of course, that made sense. Malcolm leaned over Oliver and rewarded him with another sip of water. "Who else was there? Who planted the trojan?"

"Fel... Felicity."

"What's her full name? How do I find her?"

"Fel...," Oliver mumbled. "Licity. Ssss... no." The high dose was making him incoherent, but it was the only chance of getting him doped-up enough to cooperate. "No... no, no no..."

"She's been hurt, Oliver. We need to find her. Where is she?"

"No... no, stayed behind..."

Malcolm gripped his shoulder. "Felicity's hurt, Oliver; she needs help, _now_. She could die if we don't get there in time."

"Felicity? No... can't... let her get hurt... No more..."

"She stayed behind? At your headquarters? Where is it, Oliver? At the club?"

"Basement."

"How do I get in there?"

"'Slocked," Oliver slurred, his head dropping further.

"Where's the key? Do you have it with you?"

"'Ssss code." He started mumbling something; Malcolm could only assume it was the numeric code.

He straightened. If he couldn't puzzle out the slur of numbers, well, there were other ways of breaking coded locks. "It's all right. I'll go get her." He gently patted Oliver's shoulder as he turned away.

===#===

That... blur... was going to get Felicity. "No..." Somehow, that was bad, Oliver could feel it in his bones. The blurry shape retreated rapidly, then disappeared. "No no no no no no..."

===_X_===


	2. Rational Minds

**Rational Minds**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: discussed

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

Two enemies can sit down and discuss their differences, right? More importantly, their similarities... Of course, only one of them is holding all the cards.

* * *

**Rational Minds**

===#===

Oliver slowly returned to consciousness, more fully this time. His head still pounded, his body still ached, but he felt more in focus. He remembered the fight. Vicious. He'd been totally unprepared. He'd thought Malcolm Merlyn was just another mild-mannered, over-privileged, rich businessman. Even when he'd said he'd tried to kill Oliver last Christmas, it hadn't really registered.

Oliver had thought he'd just put an arrow through the villain's heart, quickly. He knew it would hurt Tommy, and he regretted that with all his soul, but Tommy already hated him. What was one more 'murder'? To save the city, Oliver would have done it.

He had done it. Well, he'd _tried_. And failed. And then he'd been fighting for his life, and that's when it hit him: this man was the dark shadow in the back of his mind, the nightmare figure who'd put three arrows in him, who'd kicked him mercilessly until his ribs were shattered, who'd come so close to killing him. And Oliver panicked.

He'd learned to face death and adversity with stone cold calm. Usually, when he fought, he remained detached. He let the heat and excitement of the fight charge his nerves, his muscles, but he held back his mind. It let him be rational, calculating; it let him control the situation, and exploit his enemies' weaknesses with razor precision.

When the Dark Archer had beaten him, he'd lost his edge. He'd lost his nerve. He'd gotten back on the horse, as Digg put it, regained some of his confidence. But as soon as he'd realized the foe he was facing, when his bow was snapped in half, in his hands...! He panicked, and he fought back mindlessly, like an animal.

And he'd lost.

Again.

Oliver tensed, jerked his body to retake control of it. Of course, he was restrained. The place he was being held was dark, only some dim, dusty light coming from somewhere up above. He was strapped to a chair, hand and foot, elbow and knee; his chest and waist were chained. The chair was metal. It was bolted to the floor. Damn. His heart raced, and he fought to control the fear. If Merlyn had wanted him dead, he'd be dead.

Which begged the question: what _did_ Merlyn want from him?

Oliver licked his parched lips. He remembered telling someone... Diggle and Felicity had been in trouble. He'd told someone where to find them. Oh, no.

Soft footfalls approached from the darkness. He looked up in apprehension. At first, there was nothing but a disembodied, ghostly face. Only when Merlyn was standing right in front of him could Oliver pick out the archer's black leathers from the shadows. His heart pounded. The Dark Archer had been hunting.

"Where are my friends?" Oliver rasped.

"They're safe." The voice-changer was off. Malcolm Merlyn's voice was soft, well-modulated. It could be firm, and often serious. Yet, Oliver could recall times when it had lightened, been more playful. The voice of a friend of the family. Oliver glared up at him in barely-contained fury.

"Safe? Like Walter was safe?"

"I promised your mother Walter would come to no harm, and no harm befell him while he was in my care."

"Y-?" Oliver's world-view crumbled just a little more. Just like that, his mother had handed Walter over. She'd known all along where he was, who had him! And had done nothing to save him.

Merlyn turned; he brought back a glass of water. He offered it to Oliver, who jerked away. Who knew what drugs it could be laced with? "How's your head?" the older man asked him.

"What do you care? Why didn't you just kill me?"

"Kill you?" Malcolm's eyebrows shot up. "If anything happened to you, your mother would castrate me." Oliver blinked. He tried to imagine his mother being physically violent... The image wouldn't form. She wasn't like that.

Malcolm set the glass down on a nearby table, then drew a chair over so he could sit facing Oliver. He pulled his gloves off. "Oliver," he said in a most reasonable and rational voice, "you've been operating under a misapprehension. I am not your enemy."

"You're a murderer."

"And, how many people have you killed...?"

Oliver's mind stumbled. He looked away from Merlyn's frank ice-blue gaze. "That-that's different. You're trying to destroy this city."

"No, I'm trying to save it."

Oliver shook his head. "You tried to kill me," he said, as Merlyn had reminded him just last night.

"I didn't know who you were, what you were doing," he said, turning up his hands in a small apologetic gesture. "I thought you were targeting rich people, squeezing them for money. I thought I could be next, or my friends and colleagues. You attacked your mother! Was that you, or your accomplice?"

Oliver could do nothing but hang his head in shame.

Merlyn, like the falcon of the same name, had sharp eyes. "It was you. How could you do that? Would you kill your own mother?"

"No!" He jerked his head up. "I would never hurt her; she was never in any danger. I just... meant to... I thought she had information; I thought I could scare it out of her." He'd been wrong, though. She'd been frightened, shaking. But she'd deflected his questions with pleas for her children, distracted him until he relented. And then she'd shot him. That... that was out of fear, he told himself.

Mr. Merlyn was looking at him in disapproval. "Haven't you ever heard the rule: never point a weapon at someone unless you intend to use it?"

Oliver flushed with shame. He'd thought he was being impartial, treating his mother like any other suspect, following Diggle's lead. But his own mother, for God's sake! What if she'd shot him while he still had tension on the string? Never mind him killing her, what if she'd killed him? He'd tried to keep his family out of the sordid muck that was festering in the city, but was he willing to sacrifice them for the greater good? What did that make him?

He shook his head, and pain flared behind his eyes. Whatever Merlyn had dosed him with must be making his mind fuzzy. "You drugged me," he growled.

"I apologize for that, too," he said with irritating sincerity. "It was the fastest way to get the information I needed, before anyone else got hurt."

"Where are my friends? And don't give me some bullshit about how safe they are. Where are they, exactly?"

"Mr. Diggle is currently in police custody," Merlyn reported, as calmly as if he were reporting profit margins to stockholders. "He's being held on suspicion of theft from one of my warehouses. The police can't currently reach me, so he will probably stay there until morning. Then what happens next all depends on whether I press charges or not." He didn't sound as if he were delivering a threat, not even a veiled one. It was all so matter-of-fact. Oliver withdrew the simile of a falcon; the man was a snake. A well-camouflaged snake that you didn't even know was there until after you were bitten and the poison was coursing through your veins.

"And Felicity?" His throat clicked as he swallowed.

"She is being held at a secure facility, under the watch of my personal guard." Neither his voice nor his eyes wavered.

"If you've hurt her..."

"No. She's a smart girl, very rational. She cooperated."

Oliver closed his eyes and let his head drop forward. His nostrils flared as he tried to detect the scent of blood on the archer's clothing. There was nothing. It only made him feel marginally better. "What do you want from me?" he asked, not bothering to lift his head. His body ached from fighting. He just wanted to get this over with. Or to die resisting.

"I just want to talk. Are you sure you don't want any water?"

Of course he did. His throat felt like sandpaper, his tongue like a stone. He clenched his fists and shook his head.

"I want to tell you about the Undertaking," Malcolm Merlyn said. Oliver raised his head to listen.

===#===

_He looks so much like his father,_ Malcolm thought. A younger, stronger Robert. But more full of fire, and fight. Strong in his convictions. Ruthless in upholding them. "You know, you remind me of myself when I was younger," he mused out loud.

"I'm nothing like you." His tone was laced with venom. Malcolm tried to be understanding. If he, himself, felt someone were threatening his city, they would know his wrath.

"Actually, you're just like me. Someone you loved died, tragically. And that left you scarred. Then you spent years honing your skills, surviving. The one force driving you is to be a better person, to make the world a better place, so that you can honor their memory."

"My father," Oliver grated, "worked against people like you. He made me promise to protect this city from them. From you."

Malcolm shook his head, a dry laugh escaping his throat. The poor boy was so confused. "No, you father worked _with_ me. Robert and I, we created the Undertaking, together."

Oliver frowned, shook his head in denial. "That list, those were names of people he had shady dealings with. He wanted to atone for those things, to stop those people from profiting from others' suffering. My mother told me it was a list of people who owed Dad favors."

Malcolm leaned forward, interlacing his fingers together as he rested his forearms on his knees. "No, we compiled that list of crooks and criminals, who were people we could lean on. When one of them pocketed money that was meant for renovations, or bribed a building inspector, we were able to blackmail them. We were able to shunt some of those funds back into the police force. If there were a city official on the take, we could bring his career to an end, install someone else in office." Oliver was still shaking his head in disbelief. "We were doing the same work that you are doing, now," Malcolm insisted. "Just... we never went so far as to threaten people's lives, and then kill them if they didn't comply." He had to grin a little at that. "Which you have proven to be most effective."

"I did not murder people," the young man insisted. "I gave them a chance. You. You killed the men that capitulated."

"That was complicated," Malcolm explained. "There were certain key players on the list that you were interfering with. People who had parts to play in the new Undertaking."

"The slaughter of thousands of innocents."

Malcolm drew back slightly at this accusation. "I doubt there are actually that many 'innocents' in the Glades." The younger man clearly didn't share his sentiments. The young did have their lofty ideals. "Listen to me, Oliver. The new Undertaking is the only way. We've done it your way, piecemeal, here-and-there, stopping or blocking one criminal after another. You've been doing this less than a year. We did it for over a decade." He stood up and paced in agitation. "It doesn't work, Oliver! It doesn't stem the tide. Crime rates are up, murder is up, drug trafficking is up, unemployment, homelessness, gang activity- everything. No matter what we do, no matter how hard we try!"

He returned to face the young man. "The Glades are like a rat's nest. The rats come out, they steal from you, they spoil your food, they bring plague and disease. You can set out poison, you can lay out traps, you can kill dozens and dozens of them, but they never stop coming, because they keep breeding down there, in that nest. The nest has to be destroyed. Or it will just never end."

"What you're doing is _wrong_." Oliver looked up at him, his eyes so deep and full of conviction. "There are women, and children, living in the Glades. There are families!"

"There are drug addicts, and teen mothers on welfare. There are babies born already addicted to crack! Some are born with AIDS, and those are probably the lucky ones. They die before they can be abandoned, or neglected, or abused. Before they grow up in the hopeless hell that is their lives."

"There _is_ hope. I refuse to believe the spark of humanity can be extinguished. It is not right to take away people's lives based on where they live." Oliver's voice grew stronger.

"What about taking their lives away based on how they live?"

"Those people didn't ask to be poor."

Malcolm tightened his jaw. "No. But they make decisions every day about what they do. You want to talk about the spark of humanity? Let me tell you a story.

"There once was a young woman with that spark. She wanted to help the poor in the Glades; she wanted to make their lives better. She opened a medical clinic, and she turned away no one."

"Your wife," Oliver said softly.

"My wife, Rebecca," he confirmed. "Those people repaid her by shooting her in the street-"

"It was _one_ man."

"It was all of them! She called for help; no one came! No one stopped to help her. They didn't care!"

"You don't know that's how it was."

"Oh, I know." Malcolm stood in front of Oliver, looking down, trying to keep his anger tightly leashed. "She called me."

"What?" Oliver twisted his head to look up. His eyes glinted in the faint light, stark against the painted and bruised sockets of his eyes.

Malcolm swallowed. He hadn't meant to go into this part of the story, but the young man deserved the truth. "She... tried to call me. I was busy." He looked away from Oliver's gaze. "She knew I was going to be busy that night, and I'd told her not to call me. It was just one of those little things she did; she would always call me when she left the clinic to come home. When my phone rang, I knew it was her. And I was annoyed." _You selfish bastard._ He squeezed his eyes shut. "When she called back a minute later, I turned off the phone." It was stupid, so stupid and petty. Just one of those little things you do to the person you love, a momentary disagreement, a little conflict; no relationship was ever perfect all the time. It was the worst mistake of his life. He took a breath to regain control.

"I don't know why she didn't call 911. I guess she was hurt, she panicked... She wanted to call someone she trusted to help her. And I failed her." With an iron grip, he took hold of his guilt and choked it down. When he was sure his voice would be steady, he spoke again. "It was only after she was dead that I got her messages. I listened to her dying words, over and over, all night. It was all I had left," he admitted softly to himself.

He turned back to face Oliver squarely, to look the young man in the eye. "She told me she cried for help. No one came. She bled out in the street, and not one person even tried to help her. After all she did for them."

"Destroying the Glades will not bring her back."

"I know that. I can't even get revenge on the bastard who killed her, because the police never found out who did it." Malcolm made an effort to unclench his fists. "But I can save so many lives, truly innocent lives. I can make this city a better place, a safer place. She would have wanted that." Even if she couldn't live in the beautiful neighborhoods he would create, she would be pleased with his accomplishment. It was her vision of happiness for the young families of Starling City that he followed. If he could achieve that, he might finally feel some measure of atonement.

Oliver looked up at him, his jaw tightening. "How can you possibly believe that so much destruction and death could ever be something good?"

Malcolm took a breath, brushing one hand back over his hair. He sat back down in his chair. "I believe it's called the wisdom of the older generation versus the idealism of youth," he said, trying to lighten the tone, trying to defuse the heightened emotions.

Oliver's tone only darkened. "Then you might as well kill me, because I will never stop trying to stop you and your Undertaking."

Malcolm sighed. "I'm not going to kill you, Oliver; I told you that." He paused a moment, then plunged ahead. "I have a proposal for you."

"I don't care what it is."

"Just hear me out." He leaned forward again, bringing his eyes level with Oliver's. "I'm willing to suspend the Undertaking for a year. Or two, even. You continue with what you are doing. If you are able to make a difference, if you are able to start cleaning up the Glades and making it a better place..." He opened his hands in a peace offering. "Then you win. There will be no reason to level the Glades."

"What's the catch?"

"There is no catch." Malcolm met his eyes, held them. They wanted so badly to believe.

"I don't trust you."

"I'll help you."

"Help me?" Oliver flinched. "You tried to kill me."

"Well, you just tried to kill me," Malcolm shot back. "I guess that makes us even, doesn't it?" The younger man just blinked, completely flabbergasted. "Look, I can help you. I've been doing this a lot longer than you have. I... am not proud to admit this, but I happen to own a few key persons in law enforcement. I don't use that for personal gain, but... I can guarantee you will not go to prison. In the unlikely event you are even caught. Again," he added wryly. He had to admit, allowing himself to very publicly be arrested, and then very publicly acquitted, for the crime of being the Vigilante was a stroke of genius. The next time, though, they should go all the way to trial before the reveal. That way, the double jeopardy laws would make sure they could never be prosecuted again.

Malcolm reined in his thoughts. He was already thinking of them as a team. And that was far from a certainty.

"What about my friends?" Oliver asked bitterly. "Are you going to keep them captive to ensure my good behavior? To make me agree to this deal?"

Malcolm didn't answer right away. He pinched his lower lip between his thumb and first knuckle, thinking.

===#===

Oliver watched this man in black, this Dark Archer. Ruthless businessman, ruthless murderer. Why was he even considering this 'deal'? Malcolm Merlyn was a liar, by day or by night. He had to work out some angle, some way to escape. His head still throbbed, but his mind was clear.

The first question was, did he think he could convince Merlyn that the way of mercy was the right way? No, the first question should be, would Merlyn ever give up his multi-million dollar plan at the eleventh hour? For all Oliver knew, the UNIDAC Industries device was already being put into position, ready to be activated at a moment's notice. This building he was in, it could be Merlyn's holdings in the Glades, the same place Walter was kept. Hell, the UNIDAC device could be in the basement, and this place could be slated to be first in line to fall.

"Look," Oliver said into the silence following his last question. "You let my friends go free, and I will promise to enter this deal with you. As long as you keep up your end to put the Undertaking on hold."

Merlyn didn't answer, his eyes remained unfocused. After a few moments, he seemed to snap out of it. "Actually, I'll tell you what." He stood and looked down, putting on his sincere face. "If you tell me you agree to this deal, I should hold on to them. For collateral against you defaulting on your end, shall we say. On the other hand, if you decide you can't live with my deal, if you are going to insist the only way for me to stop you is to kill you..." He spread his hands. "Then I promise they will be freed after you are dead." Oliver's mouth drifted open. What the hell kind of deal was that? Malcolm held up a hand. "Don't decide now. Take some time to think it over." He turned, retrieved his gloves from the table, and disappeared into the darkness.

What the...? Then Oliver figured out what kind of deal it was: one that had him by the balls. He couldn't lie and weasel out from under Merlyn's thumb. _Shit!_ No wonder everyone feared tangling with this guy.

===_X_===


	3. Moira

**Moira**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

Do the Queens actually have a butler? Oh well, for dramatic purposes, they do now.

* * *

**Moira**

===#===

Malcolm drove himself to the Queen mansion. He pulled in behind a red convertable as one of Thea's friends dropped her off. The teenager barely spared him a glance and was halfway up the porch steps as he got out of his car. Malcolm called a polite greeting to her, and she whirled on him.

"Oh, you just couldn't wait, could you!"

He drew up short and raised his hands defensively. She ranted on, her voice wobbling between anger and tears. "She hasn't even had time to read the damned divorce papers! And here you come, sniffing around!"

"What?"

The Queens' butler opened the door, and Thea stomped inside. "And don't let him in," she growled on the way past.

Malcolm got ahold of himself, straightened his jacket, and went up the steps. The butler held up a hand. "I'm sorry, sir."

He couldn't be serious. "Ellis!"

"I've been instructed not to let you in, sir."

"Ellis, Thea's drunk," Malcolm said.

"Miss Queen is eighteen, and as an adult of the household..."

"All right." Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose. This is the last thing he needed right now. "Would you please tell Moira that I am here to see her." He didn't raise his voice; there was no sense blaming the servants.

"Madame has retired for the night," Ellis stated.

"This is urgent. Please tell her I need her help with our undertaking, immediately."

"I will inquire, sir." And with that, he sedately and politely closed the door in Malcolm's face.

He let out a pent-up breath and paced across the semi-circular porch. He couldn't believe this! A friend of the family for _years_, left cooling his heels outside the door like some unwanted salesman or something! He had enough to deal with.

A few minutes later, the door opened. "Madame will see you, sir. Please follow me."

The butler led him to the downstairs study. "Madame will be down shortly. May I offer you a drink, sir?"

"No, Ellis. Thank you."

"Very good, sir." Ellis gave him a polite nod and retreated.

===#===

It was several more minutes before Moira came in, wrapped in a robe. Her eyes looked puffy, and not from sleep.

"Is everything all right?" Malcolm asked her in concern. Could it be true? "Thea was ranting something about divorce papers."

"Yes, Walter is suing for divorce," she said, her voice hard. "Apparently allowing him to be kidnapped is grounds for that these days."

He was truly shocked. "Moira, I swear, he did not learn that from me or any of my people."

She sighed. "No, I know that. I tried to warn him off poking into Robert's old business. Then y-" The words seemed to choke her; she wrestled with them a moment. Bitterly, she said, "Walter has a degree from Oxford University; he can put two and two together!"

"I'm so sorry," he said, and he meant it. And yet he couldn't help thinking that Moira would be free, and he'd been alone for so long. He squashed that traitorous thought. "I know I keep saying that, but it's true." He put his hands lightly on her elbows, looked into her eyes. "You're a good friend, and I want only the best for you."

She dropped her gaze. "That's neither here nor there. What is it you want, Malcolm?"

"We shouldn't talk here," he said, nervously glancing at the closed door. "Please come with me, I'll explain on the way."

"Why can't you tell me here?"

"Why does Thea think I'm here 'sniffing around' after you?" He lifted his hands from her arms. "Is this inappropriate? Have I done something wrong?"

Moira shook her head and half turned away. "No, Thea is just young. She doesn't understand things, and she... fills in the blanks. What else would she think?"

"Where is she now?" He hoped maybe Moira had seen her daughter off to bed.

"I don't know."

"Then please get dressed, and come with me."

"Why should I?" she demanded, a little harshly.

He wet his lips and stepped closer, lowering his voice. "It's... Oliver."

Now her eyes met his, they narrowed in threat. "What about Oliver?"

"He's been hurt, Moira. Please, come with me."

"Nobody's called me-" She cut herself off with a sharp intake of breath. "If you've hurt him, Malcolm, I swear to God-!"

He put out a placating hand. "He's going to be fine, but I need you to talk to him." She looked about to argue; he cut her off. "Please. Get dressed and come with me."

===#===

Malcolm gripped the steering wheel a bit more than was entirely necessary for retaining control of the car. This would have gone better if they could speak facing each other, but he didn't trust Thea not to take it into her head to eavesdrop on her mother. Moira sat stiffly in the passenger seat, a tightly wrapped bundle of energy that he hoped would not be unleashed upon him.

"What is this about?" she demanded.

He took a breath. "I know this is going to be hard for you to hear. Just... try to listen and not get too upset."

"Don't sugar-coat it, Malcolm."

That was easy for her to say. "It's Oliver... He's the Vigilante."

"No he isn't," she snorted. He tried to explain, but she overrode him. "That's what the police tried to pin on him, he was clearly innocent!"

"Moira-"

"He was at home," she insisted, punctuating each phrase; "he wore a GPS monitor, he was nowhere near that place where they saw the Vigilante that night."

"Moira-"

"That damned vigilante; he kidnapped me and Oliver! He tied us up at some warehouse, he started asking question!"

This was the first he'd heard of that. "Wait, when did this happen?" He glanced anxiously aside at her.

"It... it was... last night!" she finally bit out.

And why hadn't she told him? "What did you tell them, Moira?"

"Nothing!"

"Nothing?" He was beginning to get the picture of why there was a trojan in his computer system and a murderous vigilante in his office. "Nothing," he repeated skeptically. "They just interrogated you, and you said nothing, and they let you go."

"I... He was hurting Oliver." Her unshakable voice broke. "It was the Vigilante, he was beating my son!"

"No, listen to me, Moira. Oliver has an accomplice. He poses as the Vigilante from time to time."

"It's not Oliver!"

"His accomplice is Mr. Diggle, his bodyguard."

"No!" she wailed. Then she fought to regain some calm. "No. That can't be right."

"The Vigilante was in my office tonight. He tried to kill me."

"Oh my God, Malcolm."

"We fought. I swear, I didn't know who it was. I knocked him unconscious, and that's when I took off his hood." He glanced to the side to guage how she was taking this. She looked shocked. "I'm sorry, Moira, it's Oliver."

"No..." Streetlights glinted from the tears on her cheeks. "But... the Tower..."

"This can't be easy for you to hear, but... yes, he admitted to attacking you."

"Not Oliver! Not my son!" She put her face in her hands.

"He wasn't going to hurt you," he told her, raising his voice to be heard over her sobs. They didn't abate. "Moira, don't cry. Please." Her cries tore at his heart. He could never stand to hear a woman cry, when he couldn't comfort her. It made him feel so helpless, like a child. When he was a boy, he could never stem his mother's tears. And when Rebecca had cried for him- he'd ignored her. "_Please_ stop crying." It hurt, like a physical pain in his chest. And blurred vision was not conducive to safe driving. "I promise, everything is going to be all right."

He slowed the car, pulled over to the curb. He twisted towards her, as far as the seatbelt would allow; he put a hand on her shoulder. "Come on, it's going to be all right." He tried to think if there were tissues here in the car somewhere; probably not. His free hand fumbled in his pockets for a handkerchief. But Moira pulled one from her purse before he could be of any help. She took a few deep breaths and wiped her face.

"I'm... I'm all right," she said, her voice thick and wet.

He squeezed her shoulder, rubbed it reassuringly. "Everything will be fine."

"But he's a criminal..." She pinched her lips shut, shaking her head in denial. She couldn't hold it back. "He's _killed_ people." Her chest hitched; another tear spilled from her eye.

"Moira," he said softly. He put his hand to her cheek, brushed it clear with his thumb. "He's not a criminal. He's trying to carry on with his father's work, to make this world a better place." Gently, he wiped away another tear. "Killing... is not necessarily wrong." She pulled away slightly. Malcolm released her, turned back in his seat. "It won't be long, and we'll be there." He put the car back in gear and pulled out into the late night traffic.

It was only a few more blocks to the Merlyn Global building. They rode in silence. Malcolm contemplated with chagrin how unmanned he became at a woman's tears. When Moira had cried over Frank's body, and begged for his daughter to be spared... His conviction had crumbled. He should be stronger. More ruthless. But his thirst for vengeance had evaporated.

Inevitably, his thoughts then turned to the young woman at UNIDAC's lab 34. He hadn't thought to check if any of the scientists of that lab had been out on break. If she and her friend hadn't been so punctilious in returning, he might have missed them. They'd been frozen in terror. And she'd cried. She'd cried and looked him in the eye as he'd drawn the arrow back.

He chewed his lip. He could have let her go. Told her if she told anyone what she saw here today, she would die. She would have run. But no. She'd still be a threat to him, no matter how small, how slim. His only consolation was that it was quick. She didn't suffer. He was not a cruel man. His position in the world required him to to be ruthless if he wanted to succeed. But he would never relish hurting the innocent.

The guilty... now that was another matter altogether.

===#===

"Oliver? Oh!"

He lifted his head, opened his eyes. He peeled his dry lips open. "Mom?" Hope flared within him... and then died. Of everything he'd tried to shield her from, of all the things he never wanted her to know. His heart sank.

Moira rushed to him and threw her arms around him. "Thank God you're all right."

"Mom?" he said in a small, quiet voice. Her unconditional love took him by surprise. "I'm sorry."

She drew back, crouched before him, her eyes darted over him. She took in his injuries, his clothing. Her expression slowly changed to one of horror. With a trembling hand, she reached to touch his face. He winced slightly, though she didn't hurt him. She rubbed her thumb across his cheek, under his unswollen eye. When she looked at her hand, she could see the green facepaint transferred to her skin. She looked into his eyes, searching for an explanation. Any other explanation. But there was only one. "It's true."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"You... you attacked me." She stood, drawing further away.

He hung his head. "I didn't... I never meant to hurt you." Wholly inadequate. What could he say? How could he ever make things right between them again?

"Why, Oliver? Why?"

"Dad asked me... to try to right the wrongs he had done. He gave me the list. He begged me to stop the evil that is poisoning this city." His father's dying wish. He couldn't refuse. "I didn't want you or Thea involved. I didn't want anyone to know... to be hurt. I..." The words choked him. He'd hurt Laurel, and Tommy. Diggle and Felicity were in danger because of him. Walter had been kidnapped, subjected to imprisonment. Thea was angry with him. He'd attacked his own mother!

She bent and tugged at the straps holding his wrists. She tried to free him, but they were secured with locks. She cursed underbreath in frustration.

"I had to try to stop the Undertaking." No matter that it might entail killing his best friend's father. His own father's close friend, a friend of his mother's, of the family. Malcolm Merlyn was practically like an uncle to him! "I had to. Innocent people were going to die."

"I know."

Oliver looked up into her face. His eyes narrowed. "And you agreed to it."

She shook her head. "No." She lowered her voice, as aware as he was that they were in the dragon's lair, and he might be listening. She embraced him again, and he wished he could put his arms around her. "Malcolm wouldn't let anyone stand in his way. He never has." She trembled and whispered, "Why didn't you kill him?"

He pressed his face to her neck, hot tears leaking from his eyes. "I tried." His body burned with the pain of failure, again. He'd fought, and he'd been beaten, in both body and spirit. "I _tried_. I can't beat him."

He shuddered, and an answering tremor went through his mother's body. "No one can stand against him," she said in defeat.

Oliver pulled back so he could look into her eyes. "You can." She stared back at him, mouth slack in fear and disbelief. She slowly shook her head, eyes locked with his. "You _can_. He's afraid of you."

"Me? But..." Bewilderment flitted across her features. Then she turned thoughtful. She straightened. "I don't know what he's planning," she said calmly, "but I'll get you out of here. Oliver..." She leaned close. "Do... do what he wants. Whatever he threatens, do not ever make the mistake of thinking it's a bluff."

He nodded.

She bent and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then she brushed a hand over it, back up into his hair, ruffling it, just as she'd always done when he was a child. "I'll make this right, Oliver. I promise."

===#===

"What are you going to do with him?" Moira demanded. They were in a nearby room in the private sub-basement. Ancient suits of armor lined the walls. Malcolm had poured two drinks and placed them on a tray, but she'd refused to touch it. She'd also refused to sit down.

He leaned back on the desk, facing her. "That's up to him, really. I gave him a choice."

"What choice?" She watched him, this man who was still a mystery to her even after a decade of familiarity. She looked for anything, a sign of weakness, a sign of fear. He showed nothing but confidence and control.

"Either to join us, or...," he paused, watching her as intently as she watched him. "To die."

Moira's heart started pounding. But she knew better than to let any emotion reach the surface. Merlyn was like a predator, if he smelled blood or fear, he'd attack. She tried to remember her son's words. _He's afraid of you._ Again, like a dangerous predator, if faced with strength, he'd back off. "You are _not_ going to harm my son."

He smiled and made a placating gesture. "No, of course not." He sipped his drink. "But if his convictions are that strong..."

"He won't join you, Malcolm. He'd never condone the leveling of the Glades."

"I've decided to put the Undertaking on hold. Until he has a chance to come around."

Again, Moira was glad for her instinctive suppression of emotions around this man. She might have fallen over in shock, otherwise. "You'd put your plans on hold? Just like that? I thought... I thought everything was in place."

He nodded slowly. "It is. Yet, holding off will actually work better for us. The investigation surrounding UNIDAC industries will have faded out before we make our move. No one will connect the two incidents." She contemplated this turn of events while he stared down into his glass a few moments. "I've already told you that sometimes I have my doubts. This whole situation with Oliver... makes me question my convictions. Maybe with a fresh point of view... I don't know."

Now Moira's heart pounded, not in fear, but in hope. In all these years, she'd never dreamed of being able to change Malcolm Merlyn's mind. "But... what if he refuses?" She'd warned Oliver not to, but the boy was stubborn.

"Has he ever been in therapy, since his rescue?"

"Therapy? No, why?"

Malcolm watched her as he calmly explained. "Post traumatic stress disorder can strike suddenly, and at any time after a stressful event. Years or months later."

"Are you suggesting...?" She frowned at him. "Oliver is not crazy."

"No, but, he could be admitted to a private facility for treatment. You know, it might be best if he didn't remember this Vigilante episode. With the proper therapy and drugs-"

"Are you suggesting we brainwash my son?" Moira snapped.

"As long as he knows about the Undertaking, he is a threat to us," he replied coldly. "I don't want to kill Oliver, and I know you don't want to see him dead. But he cannot be permitted to roam free with the will to stop us, or the information to send us to prison. This is the best solution for everyone." Moira shook her head. "Listen. Mr. Diggle is already set up to take the fall as the Vigilante. He's been working with Oliver, and he's posed as 'the Hood' on at least two occasions that we know of. He's in police custody right now. And the Vigilante will not appear to exonerate him. Once everyone is convinced that Diggle is indeed the Vigilante, then Oliver's claims will be seen as nothing more than bravado, stress, or just the whim of a lonely trust-fund boy. Everyone already knows he's been cleared from that suspicion."

Her mind whirled. It was a non-lethal solution to be sure, but it made her skin crawl. "I want to talk to him one more time," she said shakily.

"No." Malcolm put his glass down and approached her. "I've called for a car to take you home. Go on to bed," he said, overriding her protest. "I'll call you as soon as a decision has been reached."

"Don't do anything without me," she said, remembering to keep her voice firm this time.

"I won't. I promise."

===_X_===


	4. Rebecca

**Rebecca**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

This doesn't synch up with the canon of "Sacrifices." Remember, it's AU, so just roll with it.

* * *

**Rebecca**

===#===

Oliver didn't know how long it was since his mother left. She hadn't returned, and that worried him. Some time later, Merlyn came back in. He didn't come directly to Oliver or speak to him, but plugged something in over by the wall. Then he set it down on the table.

_Is that a boom-box?_ Oliver wondered. Of all the electric-powered torture devices, that one was unexpected.

"It's not mine," Merlyn said, reading the look on his face. "It was Tommy's."

Oliver didn't bother asking what it was for. He had no doubt the man would tell him, anyway. Merlyn took a cassette tape out of his jacket pocket and turned it over slowly in his hands. It was old, scuffed. It didn't seem to have a label. He stared at it as if he were a million miles away.

"You know," he said finally, "I never told anyone what I did to Rebecca that night. How I failed her. Your father was the first." He looked over to Oliver. "It seems fitting that you're the second. Though your father wasn't in a place where he could understand why I feel as strongly as I do. I think you are in that place."

Oliver clenched his hands slowly. The man was talking about him losing his father in a senseless, unwarranted death. He did not want to revisit that pain, not here, not now.

Then Merlyn said, "I told you I'd give you time to think over my offer of joining the Undertaking. I find that when I need to think over what I'm doing, this..." He bounced the cassette lightly against one thumb. "This helps me."

He put the tape in and clicked the door shut. He hit the play button. He touched the top of the box, adjusting the volume perhaps. For a moment, a look of deep sadness came over his face. Then he turned and walked out, flicking off the lights as he did so.

Oliver was left in the deep darkness, his sensitive hearing picking up the hiss of the tape leader passing over the heads. Then there was a muted click, and the tone of the white noise changed. Then...

_A woman's voice says, "Malcolm? Are you there? I'm hurt. I need help. Sweetheart, are you there?"_

_"Are you there? Please answer. I- He had a gun. I told him to take the money... my ring. He-" her voice becomes more ragged, her breathing labored- "I called for help, but no one came. I... It hurts... Are you there? Malcolm? Please, sweetheart, answer me... I need you._

_She continues, crying for Malcolm to help her. Her breathing becoming harsher, wetter; choking her, drowning her. Blood loss and pain make her more and more incoherent. Her last words can barely be heard. "Why didn't you come? I lo-"_

===#===

Oliver's blood ran cold. Rebecca's dying words repeated for half an hour, then the tape reversed, and the phone messages played over and over again. He couldn't shut it out. He couldn't stop hearing the pleas of a dying woman. He couldn't block out her pain, or pretend it wasn't real, that it was just a movie, just an actress. She was really dying, and he was helpless, tied to the chair. He couldn't retreat, he couldn't pass into a fitful state of sleep. She was calling out; he couldn't ignore her. He listened to her message, over and over, all night.

It was enough to drive any man mad.

===_X_===


	5. The Deal

**The Deal**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

With a bit of negotiation.

* * *

**The Deal**

===#===

Oliver tried everything he could think of to ignore the voice of the dying woman, but he didn't have it in him to be heartless. Eventually, he embraced it. Subconsciously, he mouthed the words, and hoped Malcolm would come and free him from this chair.

When the recording snapped off just before the second message, Oliver jerked as if awakened from a deep sleep. He felt a moment of strange vertigo, as if the room had slowly stopped moving. He opened his eyes and straightened his aching neck.

Merlyn was back, barely visible in his dark business suit. His hand rested on the tape deck a few minutes. Then he turned and picked up the glass of water that was still there on the table.

Oliver didn't care any more what it might be laced with. He stretched his neck eagerly as Merlyn held it to his lips. He gulped the water. It was room temperature, but it felt so cool against his parched throat.

"Easy," Merlyn murmured as he tipped the glass slowly so Oliver wouldn't spill any.

Within moments, the water was gone. He felt better. His muscles still screamed in pain and stiffness from sitting in the chair all night, but his head felt clearer.

"Have you come to a decision?" Merlyn asked quietly.

He nodded. "I..." He coughed slightly, tried to get his throat in gear.

Merlyn stepped back. "Take your time."

Oliver cleared his throat, licked his lips. "I have some conditions for this deal."

Merlyn set the empty glass back down and folded his arms loosely. "I'm listening." He nodded encouragingly.

Oliver looked him in the eye. "You do not run me," he said. "I run this operation. I decide on the target. I choose when, where, and how I deal with them. I am not your cat's-paw."

"All right."

"I want my team back," he said just as frankly. "I want Diggle and Felicity."

Merlyn didn't answer right away. He did, however, seem to be thinking about it. "Actually, I think we can work something out," he finally said. "Mr. Diggle is still being held by the police pending an investigation. As soon as it is discovered that there was just a clerical error in the warehouse inventory, Mr. Diggle will be cleared, and all charges will be dropped." He held out an open palm. "Should take two, three weeks."

Oliver couldn't believe it was that easy. Merlyn had to be pulling some business deal negotiating tactics on him. What was the strategy? Throw him a few concessions he was going to make anyway, then stick even harder on the crucial point? Oliver didn't know anything about this arena. "And Felicity?"

"She could be something of a problem."

"Why?"

"Well, you know how she is."

Oliver frowned. How Felicity was what? His confusion must have been painted on his face, because Merlyn cocked a brow. "You don't know?"

He didn't want to play games. "Humor me."

"She seems a very intelligent young woman. Strong in her convictions." Merlyn frowned. "Am I wrong?"

Oliver sighed. "I suppose not." Felicity had pursued Walter's disappearance with tenacity. And despite her squeamishness about certain aspects of their work, she stepped into danger when the situation called for it. "Do you think she'll try to escape?"

Merlyn gnawed his lower lip. "Possibly."

"I do _not_ want her harmed."

The businessman raised his hand. "As long as you hold up your end of the deal, you have my guarantee."

"Can you make the same guarantee for your men?"

"They're top men."

"But they're still men." Who knows what ex-military bully boys Merlyn had on his payroll?

Again, he seemed to chew this over. "I see your point. You'd prefer women guards?" Oliver nodded. "All right. I'll have the changeover done this afternoon."

Welcome to the 21st century, with sexual equality in the paramilitary. Oliver almost groaned. Now he had no leverage to get Felicity out of wherever the hell she was.

"What did you do before you had her on your team?" Merlyn asked him.

Oliver shrugged. "Made up some bullshit rich-boy scheme to get her to look up things for me."

Merlyn actually laughed. "I bet she saw through that right away."

He grimaced. "To the credit of my acting skills... not until my mother shot me and I crawled into Felicity's car to get out of Queen Consolidated."

Merlyn shook his head, then he sobered. "Perhaps she will agree to work remotely."

"You'll let me see her?"

"I'll let you talk to her."

Oliver didn't feel the deal's grip on his balls lessen very much. "Then I think we have an agreement."

Merlyn moved forward and loomed over him. "Don't think. Be sure. Are you sure you can live with this arrangement?"

Oliver's neck muscles protested as he craned his head back to look into the man's face. It was shadowed, his pale eyes looking almost luminescent in contrast. Those eyes pierced into him. "Yes," he rasped. "As long as the city isn't in danger of being leveled, as long as I can continue my work, my life... as long as my friends and family are unharmed... Then yes. I'm sure."

Those eyes warmed, as did his voice. "Good." Merlyn bent to free him from the chair. "I'm glad."

===#===

Cold morning light filtered into the Queen mansion. Moira stared unseeing at the water droplets on the window glass, her tea untouched. She hadn't slept, hadn't eaten. The phone rang, and she grabbed it. "Malcolm!"

"_It's all right, Moira,_" he was quick to assure her. "_Everything's fine. Are you home?_"

"Yes."

"_Is anyone else there with you? Oliver doesn't want Walter or Thea to see him come in._"

"No. No, they've all left." Walter a bit more permanently. "What did Oliver say?"

"_He's agreed to my terms. I'm sending him home to you now._"

Moira melted down onto the settee. "Thank you." Her voice shook with emotion. "Thank you, Malcolm." _You bastard._ Tears of relief spilled over her cheeks. Her son was coming home, alive.

===#===

And just like that, Oliver was home. Another failed mission. At least this time he was still walking. His mother ran to him and threw her arms around him. He tensed, but hugged her back tightly.

"Oliver, thank God." He managed a groan. "Are you all right?" She released him and stepped back.

"Yeah...," he hedged. "But I need a serious soak in a hot tub, and at least a week in bed." He took a breath and winced. These ribs could do with a wrapping. Jesus, but Merlyn liked to kick a man when he was down. "I think I'll come down with some nasty flu. Then Thea and Walter won't know I'm hurt."

"Oh, Oliver," his mother scolded lightly. She turned to help him to the sauna, despite his protests he could walk just fine. "And you might as well know. Walter left me."

"What?"

"He's suing for divorce."

He stopped dead. "Mom?" he asked, aghast. "Why?"

She sighed wearily. "Why do you think, Oliver?"

"But..." Words escaped him. After all that hope, the searching, rescuing Walter so he could be reunited with his family. Just so he could leave? Oliver's spirits fell further. "I'm sorry."

"I am, too."

"How could Malcolm Merlyn do this to you? I thought he was Dad's friend. I thought he was your friend."

Moira turned to face him. "You listen to me, Oliver. That man is not our friend. Robert... something happened, years ago, down at the steel mill. There was an argument, a fight. Someone was killed."

Oliver tried to picture what had happened. A fight? "Dad? Dad killed someone?"

"It was an accident," Moira said quickly. "Robert said the man had asked for a bribe to give the foundry an inspection certificate. Your father refused..." She bit her lip and looked away. "Malcolm helped get rid of the body. Since then, he's had a hold over Robert. Over us."

Oliver's stomach turned. He'd entered into a deal with the devil. And now Malcolm Merlyn had yet another hold over them- he could reveal the identity of the Vigilante, a wanted murderer. He could set Oliver up, get him captured.

His mother rubbed his arm to reclaim his attention. "What did you agree to?"

"He said he would put the Undertaking on hold. And I would continue..."

"What? This vigilante business?"

He closed his eyes in shame.

"Oliver, you can't. It's dangerous. And you..." He saw the horror growing in her eyes. The same look that had been in Tommy's: the realization that the man before them, a man they loved and trusted, was a cold-blooded killer. "You can't... keep doing it."

This is why he had never wanted them to know. All he wanted was a family, a home, a safe haven where he wouldn't have blood on his hands. He swallowed. "You asked me... why I didn't kill him. Is that what you want? You want me to kill him?"

It was Moira's turn to drop her gaze. She didn't say anything, but he'd seen it in her eyes.

"I have to do this," he said softly. "If I don't do this, he'll go ahead with the Undertaking. He's still holding two of my friends."

She nodded her understanding. He rubbed her arms to comfort her. "We'll get through this." He kissed her brow, like she had done for him. "I promise."

===#===

Moira watched her son continue stiffly down the hall. _He killed your father._ That's all she would have to say, and he'd go straight for Malcolm, like an arrow loosed from the string. A weapon at her bidding.

But she couldn't. Not now. Malcolm had said they'd fought, and she hadn't really processed that; she'd envisioned a few thrown punches. But she'd seen Oliver after he'd been in fights. Lord knows, he'd been scuffling since he was a kid; even he and Tommy would sometimes get into it and give each other black eyes before they came crying to their mothers. This was different, vastly different. His voice denied it, but she could see pain drawn in every line of his body and how he moved. Even Malcolm couldn't hide his limp from her. They'd been in a serious fight, a brawl.

And when she'd seen Oliver, he was tied up, helpless. The only reason he'd even been alive was by Malcolm's whim. She shivered. Oliver was in no shape to face that man. Not now, and... she wasn't sure if he ever would be.

She put a hand over her eyes. She'd survived this long. She could wait a bit longer. Whatever it took to keep her children safe.

===_X_===


	6. Convalescence

**Convalescence**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: no

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

I tried to research pre-trial detention facilities, but couldn't find any information on what they're actually like inside. You can read this as a security precaution against people breaking someone out, or as a government conspiracy, as you see fit. :X Meanwhile, I'll just use MUC (Made Up Crap (tm)).

* * *

**Convalescence**

===#===

_Starling City Jail, Pre-trial Detention_

Diggle scoured the _Starling City Gazette_ for any mention of things out of the ordinary, things that might be a clue as to what had happened to Oliver the other night. There were no headlines about earthquakes or unmasked vigilantes, at least so far. But there could be worse things. Unidentified bodies, for one.

He sat at a table in the detention facility common room. It wasn't jail in the sense that he was a convicted felon. Everyone in pre-trial was considered innocent, as they haven't been proven guilty yet. He tried to think of it as a very exclusive hotel with lots of security, but it reminded him more of a mental asylum. They were all detainees, and if they tried to leave... Yeah, Hotel California, that's what it was.

"John Diggle, report to the guard station," a flat voice said over the intercom speakers. He folded the newspaper and left it on the table, then went to the front desk. It was surrounded by security glass, and reminded him of a dentist's reception area. Another of his least favorite places.

"Phone call," the guard told him. He unlocked the door, and Diggle followed him down the hall to the inmate phone station. He sat in the indicated booth and waited a moment until the guard left to pick up the receiver. He didn't need the warning stickers to tell him his call would be monitored; he could see the security camera up in the corner.

"Hello?"

"_Diggle?_"

"Oliver! Thank God."

"_I'm sorry I can't come visit you. Or get you out._"

"Never mind me, is the city safe?" He sat on the edge of his seat, hunched over the phone, hoping this all hadn't been in vain.

"_Yes._"

"Oh, thank God." All the tension drained out of Diggle in a rush. He felt as if there'd been a knife in his back that had just been removed. He slumped in the plastic chair.

"_I made a deal,_" Oliver was saying.

Diggle frowned. Of course they couldn't speak openly on this line, but he recalled the Vigilante's M.O. of asking crooks to straighten out before he came to shoot them. "Are you sure that's wise? I mean, I know you're all about giving people second chances, but in this case, the stakes are too high." Had he pulled back because he knew Merlyn personally? It was his best friend's father, after all.

"_Not that kind of deal,_" he said. "_Look, you know I can't tell you the details until you're back._"

"All right." He had to trust Oliver knew what he was doing. "But do you have any idea when that's going to be? Because Merlyn's lawyers are circling me like I'm shark bait and trying to blow this trespassing charge into some kind of corporate espionage. And my lawyer thinks the story I gave him is bullshit. I don't mind taking the rap for this, if we've won; it'd be worth it. But I'd rather not, if I don't have to."

"_Just hang tight, Diggle. Part of this deal is to get you out of there._"

Diggle's frown deepened. This deal was starting to sound complicated, and there was something in Oliver's voice. The man was never exuberant and cheerful, but something tinged his normally-reserved voice. "Did you get any evidence of the Undertaking?" he asked. It was an innocuous enough name. "Because I can blow this wide open, offer state's evidence against M-"

"_No! Don't say anything, not to your lawyer, not to anyone._" Oliver's voice rose, demanding. Then he added quickly, softly, as if afraid the people monitoring the call would hear. "_They have Felicity. Promise me you won't do anything._"

Diggle sat up straighter, the heat of his anger warring with the cold dread he felt at that news. "I won't," he said after taking a breath. "But Oliver... what the hell happened?"

There was uncomfortable silence on the line, then Oliver's voice, hesitant. "_I... trashed my bike again._"

"Like that incident this Christmas?" Diggle swore silently when Oliver confirmed it. That meant the Dark Archer was definitely a player on Merlyn's team. "What about the other guy's car?" he asked carefully. "He come out worse than you this time?" He hoped fervently that Oliver had been able to finally kill that bastard that had put him in the hospital.

"_No. It was the same as last time. He just... pulled out right in front of me. I never saw him coming._" Now he recognized the tinge in Oliver's voice. It was pain.

He felt a chill. Oliver was lucky to still be alive. And the other archer was still out there, hunting him. "Are you all right?"

"_Yeah. I'm getting there. It's not so easy without someone watching my back._"

"I can't do anything from here, Oliver."

"_I know, and I'm sorry. But there's more at stake here than just you._"

"Yeah, I understand," Diggle replied, a bitter taste in his mouth. It sounded like another hostage situation. And the terrorists were winning.

===#===

_Queen Mansion_

Oliver hated this. The last time he'd tangled with the Dark Archer, he'd had to walk with a cane for over a week. On the island, he didn't have the luxury of convalescing in leisure, let alone a soft bed in which to do so. As much as he'd hated that Purgatory, he was afraid that returning to civilization would make him soft, weak, slow. He had nightmares of black-clad figures hunting him, attacking him, and he could barely move his leaden limbs to fight or escape. He'd awaken in a cold sweat, trapped in the warm blankets.

He just had to convince his hair-trigger reflexes that a couple days of rest would allow him to heal faster. He was still pissing blood from the beating his kidneys had taken. Once that cleared up, and once he could take a deep breath without doubling over in pain, he could get out and get to his stash of healing herbs to speed the rest along.

It has been easier when he had Diggle with him. With his bodyguard- his trusted friend- he felt protected. He'd been able to rest. Diggle had helped him with his physical therapy, helped Oliver push himself harder than the doctors had thought wise.

This time, Diggle couldn't be here. And there was nothing Oliver could do to free him. _Damn Merlyn._

His musing was cut off by the sound of light footsteps outside his door. He scooted down in the bed and prepared to make a show of being vomitously ill to get rid of Thea. Instead, there was a soft knock, and Laurel poked her head in. "Ollie?"

"Nooo," he groaned, and threw the blankets over his head before she could see his bruised face. "Didn't you get my message? I'm sick!"

"Of course I got your message," she said, coming into the room. "That's why I came to see you, to make you feel better."

He groaned again, his misery only partially fake. What was he going to tell her? That he'd changed his mind. _Again?_ _"There are... things in my life, keeping us apart. But I think these things have finally passed. And I will be free to be with you."_ Oh God, why had he told her that before his work had been complete? Yes, one more mission, to stop the misbegotten Undertaking that his father had helped to spawn. He would have thrown the list away, put his archery gear in storage. He would have lived his life with the woman he loved, his reason to live.

If Merlyn found out, the black-hearted bastard would use her as another weapon against him.

"Go away," he moaned. "I'm highly contagious. You don't want to catch it." He rolled away from her and curled up.

"My God, you sound worse than my dad! What is it with you big strong men that turns you into little babies at the first sign of a sniffle?" She'd moved around the bed as she spoke and yanked the covers off his head before he could tighten his grip.

Shock slackened her features for a moment as she took in his bruised and swollen face. Then they hardened into a scowl. "Have you been fighting?"

"No!" Oliver snagged the blanket back before she saw the mottled purpling under his collar bone.

"You and Tommy haven't been fighting over me, have you?" she demanded. "That would be so immature and totally not sexy!"

"No! Look, there were a couple of guys at the club, I just sorta got between them."

"With your face?" She shook her head.

"I guess I'm not cut out to be the hero type," he said dolefully.

"Oh, Oliver." She sat on the edge of the bed and reached to touch his cheek. He winced, but her hand was soft and smooth. It was soothing. She looked into his eyes.

_Tell her to leave._ His throat closed. _If you want her to be safe, she can't be near you._ He had to be strong. It didn't matter how much it hurt him, he had to keep her safe. But he knew this would be the last time. He couldn't keep putting hooks into her heart and tearing them out. It was hurting her, too, and she didn't deserve that.

"Oliver, what's wrong?" Her eyes darkened in concern. Her hand caressed his cheek.

And he couldn't say it.

"Nothing. I... just... really sick. I've been coughing so hard, it feels like my lungs are in shreds."

"You poor thing." She kissed him gently on the forehead. "If I'd learned to cook, I would've brought you some homemade soup."

Despite everything, she made him laugh. "Oh no." He winced as hot knives pierced his ribs.

"I'm sorry, Ollie," she said, half laughing, herself. "I didn't mean to make it worse."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "Please leave. I couldn't bear to see you in this much pain."

"All right." Her weight lifted from the bed. "You rest up. I'll see you soon. I love you, Oliver."

He curled up under the blanket. _I love you, too, Laurel. I just hope I'm not the death of you._

===_X_===


	7. Felicity

**Felicity**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: maybe

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

And how hard could it be to get Felicity on board? ...grumble... First a flashback that had a former life as a deleted scene. That should be fun! Plus an extra scene too short to fit anywhere else.

* * *

**Felicity**

===#===

_On that Fateful Night_

_Felicity didn't know what to do. _Don't panic,_ she kept telling herself, but she couldn't think of a good reason _not_ to. Diggle was trapped in the warehouse, surrounded by police, and Oliver... Oliver hadn't answered the comms in way too long. Where was he?_

_A familiar electronically enhanced voice rumbled from the darkness of the basement. "Felicity."_

_"Oliver!" She turned around, leapt up and froze, her breath catching in her throat so hard it almost choked her. That... that was not Oliver. The archer in black had an arrow pointed straight at her. It was that copycat, the Dark Archer, the man who'd put Oliver in the hospital, his greatest nemesis! And... she'd just revealed Oliver's secret identity. _Do something!_ her mind screamed at her. "Oliver... drabber... suited you better," she faked lamely. "Archer person whose real name I do not know," she added, in case there were any doubts left._

_"I don't want to hurt you," the hooded man said. "But if you do not do exactly as I say, I will kill you. Do you understand me?"_

_Felicity swallowed, fear making her throat tight. "Um..." She tried again. "Perfectly."_

_"Take two steps towards me. Keep your hands where I can see them."_

_She had to remember how to move her arms and legs, first. She stared at the black-tipped arrow. It was difficult to see, black against black. It was so sharp, it was barely more than a thin line when seen head-on. Slowly, hands out to her sides, she took a step... two._

_"Turn around. Put your hands behind your back, thumbs together."_

_Now she imagined she'd see the arrow quite clearly as it punched out through her chest, and she really wished she didn't have such a vivid imagination! She put her hands behind her back while she tried to control her breathing. The police said things like this, when they wanted to handcuff someone. Was he a policeman? She filed this piece of information away._

_A moment later, she felt him at her back, looming threateningly. He secured her wrists together with a zip-tie. No police handcuffs then, she noted. She flinched and let out a little squeak as he put a hood over her head. Not a hooded-archer hood, but a South-American-execution-victim hood. A you're-being-kidnapped hood. Oh, that sounded better. She didn't stop shaking, though._

_Until a few moments later. There was a sharp sting in her neck, and the strength went right out of her legs. The last thing she knew before everything went black, she was falling back against the Dark Archer, and he caught her in his arms._

===#===

She'd woken up in a bed, in a room. It had been dark. Her shoes were gone, her glasses she found later on a rickety desk in the room. Morning light revealed an oblong room painted in industrial beige. There was a flimsy plastic chair to go with the desk, and the single bed was bolted into the corner. The door looked like industrial-grade iron, like something off a submarine or, she supposed, a dungeon. It had no window or slots. If her captors wanted to see in, they'd have to rely on a small camera up in the corner. The ceilings were high; it wasn't easily reachable, plus it was protected by its own little cage.

She wondered if this was where Walter was held. For six months. Her heart sank. But if it were the same place, Oliver knew where it was and how to get in and out. That made her feel better. The cell did look like it could have had a former life as a really small tenement apartment. There was an adjacent bathroom with a shower stall, sink, and commode that had all seen better days. The bathroom door had been removed, and she felt quite odd doing her business where anyone could just walk in and see her.

Daylight came from a tiny window in the bathroom. It was nailed shut, and the glass was frosted so she couldn't see out. What she could see, though, were the shadows of bars over the window.

It could be worse, she supposed. But there was no way she was going to be able to stay here a week let alone a month or more. The boredom alone would kill her!

===#===

The intercom buzzed. "_Felicity? It's Malcolm Merlyn. I'd like to talk to you. May I come in?_"

She jumped. You know, she'd really like to have a camera on the hall outside her door. She shot an evil look at the one up in the corner of the cell. "It's your prison; what's stopping you?"

"_I thought some common courtesy would be appreciated._"

"Oh, yes! Make the captive feel right at home, shall we? Did you bring me some chintz curtains, too? That would make my cell ever so homey."

Even without a camera to see, she could sense Merlyn's sigh in the pause before his words. "_I'd really prefer to be verbally harassed to my face._"

"Oh, well, if you're game, come on in." She spun out of the desk chair and stood up facing the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

She expected snub-nosed machine guns leveled at her, a pair of slavering guard dogs on tight leashes. But no, it was only Malcolm Merlyn, who walked in and quickly- but certainly not in any rush- closed the door behind him. Didn't they give her any respect as a dangerous prisoner? Not that she has a violent bone in her body. Nor any martial arts training whatsoever. (Barring getting tossed on the mat by Diggle a couple of times.) But they could respect her ire! She could be a desperate woman!

"I'm not your enemy," Merlyn tried to soft-sell her.

She wasn't buying. "Oh? We must not be using the same dictionary. Because in mine, someone who kidnaps you and locks you up is, by definition, an enemy."

"I don't want to keep you here."

"And I don't want to stay. What a coincidence! Yet," she lifted her arms and let them drop to slap against her legs, "I'm still here."

"You're only making this difficult for yourself," he said, an edge of annoyance tingeing his voice.

"If that translates as difficult for you, then good!" She recrossed her arms.

Merlyn took a slow, steady breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Suppose I do let you go. What are you going to do?"

"Hopefully save a lot of people from dying."

"You can see how that conflicts with my own interests."

"You're a murderer and a kidnapper, and I know enough about the Undertaking to convince the police, the FBI, everybody, what a homicidal lunatic you really are."

"That's really not helping your case," he said icily.

"Well, then you'll have to kill me," she said, hoping her bravado held up under scrutiny. "Oh, but you can't; because then you won't have any leverage against the Vigilante, will you?"

"Oliver and I have a deal."

Felicity blinked. For a moment, her mind raced. Merlyn knew Oliver's identity? This was bad, very bad. And it was, perhaps, leverage enough. Her blood ran cold as she realized she might not be as necessary as she thought.

"Oliver and I want the same things, Felicity. To make this city a better place, a safer place."

She shook her head; she turned away. With one hand, she tugged nervously at her necklace. "He'd never consent to leveling the Glades. He's nothing like you."

"The Undertaking is on hold while we discuss our other options," Merlyn told her. Just as if it were another workaday business deal. What had he done to Oliver to make him agree to all this?

"I want to see him! I want to look into his eyes and hear it from his own lips."

"That's going to be difficult."

She whirled on him. "Why?"

"Because you're making it difficult." He held up a hand when she snarled at him. "I'll see what I can arrange."

After that, he left, and Felicity could only wonder what was going on outside the four walls of her cage.

===#===

_Queen Mansion_

Oliver tried to recall what he ever found attractive about the idea of vegging out on the couch. Sometimes, on the island, when he'd been bruised and battered, exhausted, sleeping on the rocky ground, he might have fantasized about it. That had been when actually doing it had been well out of reach. Now that he was here... he had too many responsibilities, too many worries. He had a city to protect, criminals to bust, his friends to save, and evil to stop. He didn't want to sit still.

Maybe someday... Someday when all was at peace, he could sit and relax. That was not today. Today it just reminded him of what he couldn't do. He hit the mute on the TV remote for the millionth time.

Thea bounced in and flopped on the other end of the couch. "You look like death warmed over."

"Gee, thanks, Speedy."

"Don't breathe on me. I have a social life to maintain."

Moira came in. "Oh, Oliver; you're up. How are you feeling?"

"Better, Mom. Getting better."

"Thea, are you going to change before dinner?"

The teenager rolled her eyes to look back over the couch. "Why?" she asked sharply. "We're not having guests over, are we?"

"No, not tonight."

"Oh, good." Thea slouched down further and muttered, "At least Mr. Merlyn didn't worm his way in here again."

Oliver grimace and looked to his mother. She mirrored his concern and started to say, "There's nothing going on between-"

"Hey, turn it up," Thea said, ignoring her mother. She grabbed the remote and unmuted the TV.

"_...tonight's special report on the effect of vigilante activity in the Glades..._" They flashed up that stupid 'Hood Guy' drawing again. They could at least colorize it, you'd think.

"Oh, turn that off," Moira said.

Oliver grabbed the remote.

"Hey! I wanted to see that!" Thea wrestled him for it, and he let go before he hurt her.

Moira said, "I don't want to hear any more about that criminal in this house."

"He's not a criminal; he's a vigilante," Thea argued. "Roy wants to meet him."

"Who's Roy?" her mother wanted to know.

"Thea's new boyfriend," Oliver said. "From the Glades."

Moira frowned in disapproval. "I don't know as that's-"

"Oh, you just had to bring that up, didn't you?" Thea shot a glare at him. "Just because he's from the Glades doesn't mean he's a criminal."

"He does have a record," Oliver said.

"He also has a job," Thea emphasized. "At your club!"

Oliver snagged the remote while she was getting all righteous, and turned off the TV. "I thought I told you and Roy to stay away from that guy. You can't trust him."

"You don't even know him!"

"Neither do you!"

"Thea," Moira interrupted; "that man is a dangerous criminal. He's a killer. You stay away from him, and from the Glades!"

"I can't stay away; I work there!" Thea snapped. She stood up, facing her brother and mother. "He's not a killer- not... not all the time," she faltered. "He doesn't kill good people. He saved Roy's life! He even saved Mr. Humanitarian of the Year. Didn't he even save you, Oliver? He's a hero!"

"He's not a hero," Oliver growled. "You don't know what you're getting into."

"And you two have no idea what's going on in the Glades!" Her eyes glittered in anger. "The police won't do anything; someone has to!" She whirled to go.

"Thea," Moira called.

"No, you just sit here in your big mansion, watching your big TV, eating your big dinner, and not giving a damn about anyone else! I'm going out!"

"Thea!" Moira chased her, to no avail. The stubborn girl was going, even if she had to tramp into town on foot.

When Moira came back, Oliver shared another worried look with her. "I'm sorry, Mom. I don't know what else we can do."

She shook her head. "I tried to convince her to go to Paris for the summer. But she won't hear of it." She sighed. "She cited her community service work at CNRI as a reason not to go, can you believe it? I would think she'd jump at any excuse to get out of that."

Oliver chuckled morbidly. "I guess you raised her to be more responsible after all."

"This is such a mess," she said, running a hand over her hair.

"Mom, it'll be all right. At least we know the Vigilante would never let anything happen to her."

"That's not what I'm worried about, and you know it," she replied darkly. It was Merlyn. With him tangled up in the Vigilante's business, Thea could end up crossing paths with the Dark Archer.

"I will protect her, Mom; you have my word."

"You're not the only one. I'll do what I have to, to protect her, as well."

===_X_===


	8. Peace Offering

**Peace Offering**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

Oliver doesn't know whom to trust. Malcolm is still trying to get into his good graces.

* * *

**Peace Offering**

===#===

Oliver sat in his 'lair.' He was supposed to be checking up on the club's books, but instead he was using the computers to pull up news feeds on Diggle's case. There wasn't much; it was hardly a glamorous major case file. For now the investigation was 'ongoing.'

"Oliver."

He jumped at the sound of his name coming from the darkness. He twisted out of the chair to face Merlyn.

The businessman held up one hand. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." There was some sort of case, like an elongated briefcase, in his other hand.

"What th-! Are you spying on me?"

"I called at the house; Moira said you'd gone to check on the club, and I figured this was the most likely place to find you."

"How did you get in here?" Oliver was riled. He could feel his spine prickling with a heightened sense of danger. Goddammit, he did _not_ like someone breaking into his sanctum and sneaking up on him unnoticed. If Merlyn had wanted him dead...

"You gave me the code. Well, technically. It wasn't hard to figure out."

"You drugged me and tricked it out of me!"

"Oliver, we've been through this. This isn't necessary. I am not your enemy. I'm not some evil, comic-book nemesis." The businessman's light tone did nothing to sooth Oliver's anger.

"You couldn't have just called me?"

"I um... don't actually have your cell phone number."

Oliver groaned in annoyance. Of course, what reason would Malcolm Merlyn have to call Oliver Queen? He pulled his cell from its holster and laid it on the desk. He supposed he'd have to accede to putting the man in his phonebook.

"Besides, I brought you this. Since you're up and about." He came forward and offered Oliver the case. He could see it was a bowcase. Slim, sleek; not like Yao Fei's old wooden chest. It was molded charcoal grey plastic. Oliver took it with ambivalent feelings. He was grateful to once again own his weapon of choice, but accepting it from the man who'd destroyed his last one left a sour taste in his mouth.

He brought it to the side table and set it down, but he didn't open it yet. He turned back to Merlyn. "And Diggle? A flight risk? Really?"

"He's ex-military. And he has very, very rich friends." Merlyn shrugged. "He could conceivably flee the country, take over a small South American dictatorship, and live out his life in style."

"Or his very, very rich enemies could buy off a judge to deny bail?"

"That's how Big Money operates."

"I want to see Felicity," Oliver growled. Now that he was out of the house, he could go to wherever Merlyn was holding her captive.

"You can come to my office. I'll show you the video feed."

"That's not good enough."

"Oliver, I'm not going to send a live, traceable signal to your computer systems," Merlyn said firmly. "I promised you she would not be harmed, and I am a man of my word. Your mother trusted me with Walter."

As if Moira had a choice? A slow-burning anger heated Oliver's blood.

"How did you find him, by the way?"

"We found records of the payoff and traced the money to Alonzo. When I squeezed him for information, he said he had delivered Walter to someone who shot him." What had happened there? Was it part of Merlyn's plan to obfuscate the trail leading to Walter's captors? Who crafted plans that elaborately? Oliver took a breath. "When I broke the news to my mother... she ran straight to you," he said darkly.

"And she nearly bit my head off," the businessman mused. "But I didn't have him there."

"We traced the call you made to the people holding him."

Understanding grew within Merlyn's eyes. "And when you say 'we,' you mean Felicity."

Oliver regretted giving him the information; he should have kept his mouth shut. Now Merlyn was calculating just how much of a danger Felicity was to him- and how little threat Oliver posed without her help. With effort, he reined in his feelings and presented a stone facade.

Merlyn watched him, as if reading him like a book. Mildly, he said, "Once she is a bit more settled, and security precautions are in place, I'll arrange a phone call."

"If I find out you've harmed her in any way, now or ever," he said coldly; "I don't care what it takes, I will hunt you down and kill you."

"What makes you so sure in your belief that I even want to hurt her?" Merlyn sounded affronted. "I have no desire to harm Ms. Smoak. I do not have anything against you, Oliver, or your friends. I would never harm your family. Yes, it would have been more convenient, easier, to have Walter killed; safer to have him taken out of the picture. But your mother didn't want that, and neither did I. Holding him was the best solution, for everyone involved."

Oliver made a sound of disgust and turned away. Talk about Moira's complicity in Walter's imprisonment made him realize once more how blind he could be to his mother's machinations. And the divorce. As sympathetic as he was to his mother, could he really blame Walter?

He looked down at the bowcase on the table and ran his fingertips over the faintly-pebbled surface, recalling the last time he'd held his bow in his hands. He'd used the bowstave so many times as an extension of his arm in close-quarter fighting. He could knock the legs out from under his foe, knock a weapon out of their hands. A strike to the face or the temple would take them out quickly. It was so solid, so strong, he never imagined it could be broken. Goddamn, Merlyn was strong. Oliver shuddered. Breaking his bow had been like breaking his spirit. He bit his lip.

"Tell me how you and my father became friends." He looked over his shoulder.

Merlyn's brows went up. "We worked in the same type of business, we moved in the same social circles, belonged to the same clubs. We had boys of the same age, and our wives were thick as thieves." He smiled faintly. "We had a lot in common."

"How did he get involved in the Undertaking?"

"He and I were complaining about high crime rates and incompetent police one night over drinks. Then we sort of brainstormed the idea of what we could do if we focused our efforts. We found other, like-minded businesspeople, and formed our group."

"There are other people in the group? Who are they?"

"At this point in our relationship, I don't think it would be prudent to tell you that," Merlyn said frankly.

Oliver returned to the point he was trying to get at. He faced the other man once more, leaning back on the table. "Tell me how my father was involved in crime in the Glades."

Merlyn pursed his lips. "Robert didn't like to talk about that." His blue eyes sought Oliver's. "I think he'd prefer if you didn't know."

"I already know," Oliver said. "My mother told me. But I wanted to hear it from you."

"All right." He tucked his hands in his pockets and looked up towards the far wall, bringing the memories to the fore. "It happened here in the foundry, actually. Robert met the local councilman a few weeks before it was scheduled to open. The councilman, Hinkleston was his name as I recall, demanded a substantial bribe to give the building a clean Health & Safety inspection."

Merlyn looked at him. "There was no reason for a bribe. Robert was an honest, hard-working businessman. He didn't cut corners or cheat his employees. This building was up to code in every way. The only reason Hinkleston demanded money was because 'that's how we do things in the Glades.'"

"Were you there?" Oliver asked him, curious about the details he seemed to know.

He shook his head. "Robert told me about it over the next few days. I pieced it together.

"Anyway, Robert refused to pay. They got into a heated argument. It escalated... And ended up with Hinkleston dead on the floor."

"How was he killed?"

"It was an accident," Merlyn told him firmly. "Your father never meant for it to happen; he didn't throw Hinkleston over the rail or push him down the stairs. The man just lost his footing in the scuffle, and he landed badly, breaking his neck.

"Your father was, understandably, in a state of panic. He called me, because he didn't know what else to do."

"If it was an accident, why didn't either one of you call the police?"

Merlyn sighed and looked down. "There wasn't anything anyone could do. His neck had snapped; he was dead instantly. We didn't know if there was any proof that Hinkleston was dirty; it could have just been Robert's word. Robert had just sunk most of his liquid capital into construction of the foundry, and his financial situation depended on it opening on time. If a murder investigation caused a delay, he'd lose thousands of dollars. And even if they ruled it involuntary manslaughter, he could still do up to two years in prison. Thea had just been born, he would miss the first years of her life.

"Robert didn't deserve any of that, not for making a mistake that wasn't even his fault. Your family didn't deserve to lose him for any amount of time, or to lose the income from the foundry. So... I helped him make it disappear. Hinkleston became another victim of the Glades, another unsolved murder.

"Oliver, you know what men like Hinkleston are like." He pulled one hand from his pocket to gesture in emphasis. "They're dirty, corrupt; they feed on the innocent people of this city. We could have turned him in, sent him to jail, if he hadn't fallen. But either way, he deserved his fate."

"Did you use this favor you did for my father to force him to join the Undertaking?"

"No. I told you, Robert and I developed it together."

"Did you ever blackmail him by threatening to tell the police what he did?"

"What? No! Oliver, what are you talking about?" Merlyn frowned in puzzlement.

Oliver bit his lip and turned away. He leaned on the bowcase. One of the people who'd told him this story must be lying. Of course he trusted his mother implicitly, but he'd read Merlyn for any tells. He was hiding something, to be sure, but he didn't seem to be lying. Then again, he was a big business power player. And his mother had fooled him- completely- before. He swore underbreath.

"Where did you get the idea that I would blackmail your father? I told you, we were friends."

"That seems to be your _modus operandi_." He looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowed.

"Oliver, do you trust me?"

"No," he growled.

"Well, from where I'm standing, there's a mad vigilante killer gunning for me. You can hardly blame me for trying to protect myself."

_Shit._ He had a point. Lying or not, he had a point.

"I know there's nothing I can do or say that will make you trust me," Merlyn said. "We'll just have to take time to learn to trust each other." He moved up beside Oliver and rested a hand on the case next to the younger man's. "I brought you this as a gesture of my good will. You should work with it, get a feel for it. I had it made to the exact specifications of your original bow, but still. No two are exactly alike."

"Where is that bow?" Oliver asked suddenly. It was only a bow, but it belonged to Yao Fei's family. It should be with his things.

"I still have it," Merlyn said gently. "If you'd like it back."

"I would."

"All right."

He stepped back as Oliver opened the case. The bow was unstrung. It was lacquered in deep forest green that darkened out at the tips. Oliver pulled it from the recessed foam compartment and hefted it, examining the curves and balance. Merlyn was right- though it looked the same size as Yao Fei's bow, the weight was slightly different. He wanted to test the pull, but the string was still coiled in the case. "Erm," he said, feeling like that lost wuss of an American kid on that island. "I don't... I mean, I've never..."

"You've never strung a bow?"

"I sorta inherited mine," he admitted, his face heating.

"Well, it's been a while since I used a recurve, but it's fairly simple." Merlyn eyed the stave in Oliver's hands. "Never done it with a bow this short, though," he hedged.

Oliver quirked a brow at him.

"No offense."

===#===

Merlyn talked him through the stringing of the bow. Oliver had expected him to take it and do it- he was the one with experience after all. But the man had a nearly religious attitude towards archery. He had asked if he could stay and watch Oliver practice. Oliver had shrugged, not sure how he should feel about that. But he didn't want to sound childish. Merlyn took off his jacket and perched on one of the stools.

Oliver soon forgot about him as he focused on the bow. The new draw was tight. Not harder to pull, exactly, but it didn't flow as smoothly as his older, more limber bow. The points where it hit its maximum resistance and it's sweet spot were slightly different.

He shot round after round into a soft target, not aiming for any particular spot on it, just getting used to the rhythm and feel of the pull and release. After that, he blazed through a speed trial, still not exactly aiming, but clustering his shots low, medium, high. And after that, it was time for a bit of fun.

He dumped several cannisters of tennis balls into the wire basket, which he then placed on the table. With his right hand, he threw one of the balls at the floor, pulled an arrow from his quiver, put it to string and drew it back, then fired as the ball hit its peak on the second bounce. The shaft split the sphere and pinned it to the wall.

Mechanically, he repeated the exercise while his mind sifted through the things he'd learned in the past few days.

The Queen and Merlyn families were long-time friends. _True._

Robert Queen and Malcolm Merlyn had been working together on a secret project. _True._

Robert Queen had accidentally killed someone in an argument in the foundry. _True._

Malcolm Merlyn helped cover up the crime. _True._

Malcolm Merlyn had used that fact to blackmail Robert and to force Moira to go along with his plans. The ball had too much top-spin. The arrow split the casing crookedly and pinned it to the wall, but it was not a clean shot. Oliver started again.

Malcolm Merlyn was a liar. _True._

Moira Queen was a liar. _Also true._

Oliver gripped the next tennis ball, feeling the short nap of its surface scratching against his fingertips. Had Robert and Malcolm been equal partners, or had Merlyn strong-armed his father against his will? Only Robert Queen could answer that question, and so the truth had died with him. Oliver couldn't trust his other sources in this matter. The inevitable conclusion was, he was on his own. Only he could decide what was right, and to do that, he would have to discount everything he couldn't verify, and judge these two people by what they said and did from here on out.

He threw the ball and fired.

===#===

Malcolm set Oliver's phone down when he was finished with it. Silently, he watched Oliver draw and shoot. The young man had a fierce concentration. Malcolm didn't know what was going through his mind, but it clearly troubled him. Still, his form was perfect. The trinity of bow, arrow, and archer, become one.

At last Oliver came out of his shooting trance. He frowned at the collection of tennis balls pinned to the wall and groaned slightly. "Ugh. I hate clean-up."

Malcolm chuckled lightly. "I wish Tommy had taken an interest in archery. Or fencing. Just so we'd have some way to connect. He's always so distant."

Oliver set the new bow down and walked over. He folded his arms and said quietly, "You abandoned him."

"Is that what he says?" Malcolm frowned and looked down.

"Yes. He'd just lost his mother... He needed you, more than ever. And you just left him."

"I couldn't face him! What was I supposed to do? Look into the eyes of my son, the boy who trusted me and looked up to me, and lie to him? Tell him that his mother being killed was just one of those things in life? That nothing could have been done to save her? And that no one was to blame?" He struggled to master his emotions. "I was to blame! I could have done something. I couldn't tell him the truth. And I didn't have the stomach to lie to him." He turned away, unwilling to see the scorn in Oliver's eyes.

The young man stepped closer. There was no trace of accusation in his voice, only the echo of a long-time pain. "You should talk to him."

"I used to be able to talk to Tommy." He laughed dryly. "When he was five. When he was five, we were best friends; we could talk about anything.

"And then when I came back, he was ten, and he didn't want anything to do with me. He was so cold. I... I couldn't blame him, really." He leaned on the table. "I tried to make it up to him, the time I was gone. I tried to spend more time with him, but he just pushed me away. No matter what I did, he hated it.

"So then I tried to give him his space. I tried to make up for him losing his mother, for losing me. I gave him money. I spoiled him rotten. I never asked anything from him; I didn't feel I had the right." He shook his head. "He never tried to make anything of himself. He bought his way to a Bachelor's degree in some Liberal Arts bullshit. He's twenty-four, and he's never even tried to apply for a job.

"I was at the end of my rope. I was frustrated with him, although... it was my own fault. I thought I had one more chance, a last desperate chance to make him wake up and see how he was wasting his life. And all just to spite me." He let out a breath. Saying all this, it was like draining an abscess. "It wasn't healthy for him."

Malcolm knew something had happened between Tommy and Oliver, though his son had never said what, exactly. He didn't know how bad it was, or how Oliver felt about the problem, but he could sense the young man's concern for his lifelong friend when he said, "He seems to be on track, now. Working in your company."

"Yes, he's come a long way." Malcolm turned around and leaned back against the table. "But... we still don't talk very easily. I've been trying to tell him about my work, my real work with the Undertaking. We just don't seem to be able to connect." He shook his head. "And now this." He looked up and gestured at the underground lair. "This just makes everything more complicated."

"Tommy already knows," Oliver said. "About this."

"He knows you're the Vigilante?" Malcolm didn't know why that should surprise him. It's not like Tommy told him things, let alone big secrets. "How long has he known?"

"I had to tell him, when you were shot. There was no way he would trust the Vigilante. He held a gun on me; I was sure he was going to use it."

Tommy? With a gun?

_Dad, you just killed someone!_

_As surely as he would have killed us._

Malcolm felt his heart swell with pride. His son had stepped up to defend him from unknown danger. "Now it makes sense." He could never figure out how Tommy had made that life-or-death decision, why he had chosen to place so much trust in the Vigilante.

"Tommy hates me for it," Oliver said morosely.

"Why? You saved my life."

The young man looked bitter. "He thinks I'm a murderer."

"Oliver, you're not a murderer."

"Well, I'm a killer. So it's not that far off."

"Is that... is that why he quit his job at the club? I thought he just..." Just wanted to be closer to his father. Malcolm's heart sank.

"Yes. That's why. He wants nothing to do with me."

Malcolm turned and paced a few steps, his head down, his hands in his pockets. He'd come so close to explaining everything to Tommy. The archer, the Undertaking, everything. He'd wanted so badly for his son to follow in his footsteps, to become a defender of the innocent. To be at his side as he rebuilt the Glades.

But no. Tommy... Tommy apparently didn't have the stomach for this kind of work. Malcolm was bitterly disappointed. "I'm sorry," he said, half to himself and half to Oliver. "I know you were good friends for a long time." Which was more than he could say about his relationship with his own son.

===#===

Oliver could see Malcolm was upset. Though he had to agree with Tommy's distaste for his father's brand of work. "My mother doesn't understand either," he said with dark insight. "That's why I didn't want people to know about what I was doing." They wouldn't understand. They would condemn him for his actions.

Merlyn scraped his teeth over his lower lip. "I'm sorry I brought her into this," he said. "But I think it was for the best." Oliver bit his tongue. He was sure it had worked out best for the businessman. "Your mother is a strong woman."

Once again, he was taken aback by the amount of respect Merlyn had for his mother. He didn't seem to see her as a victim. Though Oliver would have to agree- after dealing with Merlyn for a number of years, one would have to be tough.

Merlyn shook himself and picked up Oliver's phone. "I have your number now." He tilted the screen to show him the phonebook entries. "This is my cell number. This... this is my emergency number. Only a few people have it." He handed the phone to Oliver. "I can be reached here at any time, but it is only for dire emergencies."

"Like, 'Help, I'm bleeding in the street?'" Oliver meant it as a joke, but the flash of pain that crossed Merlyn's face made him realize his mistake. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean... I meant, like if some big bruiser kicks the shit out of me and throws me out a window."

"It's all right," Merlyn said, his voice well-controlled. "Most people can still joke about things like that. But yes, that's what it's for." He turned to leave. "If it isn't an emergency," he called back over his shoulder, "make sure you call my main number, so I know I can hang up on you."

Oliver grimaced, feeling like world's biggest asshole. He heard the echo of Rebecca's dying words once more in his mind. He turned to get to work on the clean-up he had to do. It could serve as penance, or at least help clear his mind with simply physical labor.

===_X_===

* * *

_Deleted Scene: Malcolm Drops by the House_

-I never finished this scene off, but Moira's insight is just hilarious... :X

.

"No," Moira told Malcolm. "Oliver's not here."

"Where is he?"

"He said he was going down to the club to check up on how they've been running the place." She didn't know what Malcolm wanted, and she didn't know why she bothered with the truth. She wanted that man as far away from her son as possible. "Honestly, Malcolm, he can barely walk," she said accusingly.

He grimaced. "Yeah, I know. I still can't raise my left arm over my head." He rubbed at his shoulder. _My God_, she thought; _He sounds like a kid down at the skate park comparing bruises with his buddy after they try some stupid stunt._


	9. Bribery

**Bribery**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: a tiny bit

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

If you can't beat 'em... bribe 'em!

Props to the _Firefly_ fans!

* * *

**Bribery**

===#===

_A private holding facility_

"I brought something for you," Merlyn said mildly as he entered the cell. He held out a plastic pint basket of strawberries.

Felicity looked at it. Then she frowned. "What is this? You think you can bribe me? This isn't _Firefly_; you can't buy my affections with strawberries."

"It's not a bribe. I just thought you would like them. You're not allergic are you?"

"No." She eyed the fruit and with an amazing show of willpower, she didn't reach for them. She wrapped her arms across her torso.

Merlyn simply turned and placed them on the desk. "I have a job for you," he said, turning back.

"A job? What job?"

"Working in the IT department at Merlyn Global."

"Funny," she said, "that sounds just like my job at Queen Consolidated."

"That job is not very secure. Especially considering your absenteeism."

She narrowed her eyes. God, she wanted to punch his face in. Oops, wait, non-violent, here. "You mean you want me under your thumb, where you can keep an eye on me. And squish me whenever it's convenient for you."

He grimaced. "If you want to leave Starling City, name anywhere in the United States you want to go. I'll get you the movers; I'll foot the bill. I'll put the down payment on your new house, or pay your first year's rent." He could do it, too. As easy as springing for a dinner date. "You can live happily far away from here, and we'll never have to see each other again."

"I'll just owe you my life, is that it?"

"What do you want from me, Felicity?"

"I don't want anything from you but my freedom," she growled.

He spread his hands. "That's all I want from you. But you keep threatening that freedom." His expression darkened. "Really, do you think that's wise?" She backed up as he took a step closer. "People tend to get upset when you threaten their freedom." He paused a moment while she looked away. "Can't we just agree to let each other go about their business without interfering?"

She couldn't meet his eyes. She knew he was capable of killing her, or at least ordering it done. But how could she agree to turn a blind eye to the things he could do... would do? "Me going about my business doesn't mean people will die."

"No? Even when you lead Oliver to his target?"

"I... That's different."

"You know, in the eyes of the law, that makes you an accessory to murder."

What could she say to that? Guiltily, she stared at the floor.

"I admire your spirit, Felicity," he said. "Really, I do. Your strength in your convictions is admirable. Admirable, but misguided. Oliver and I are not enemies. I want to help him, the same as you do."

"How can I trust you?" she asked quietly.

"How can I trust you?" he countered. "One of us is going to have to take a leap of faith."

Now she looked up at him, tentatively, a bit sidewise. "I have to say that out of the two of us? I'm pretty sure I'm the more honest and trustworthy."

He inclined his head. "And yet you are the one threatening to do harm as soon as I free you."

"Oh." She slumped. "Touche'."

"Oliver trusts me. Isn't that good enough for you?"

She looked at him, her head still lowered. "What did you do to him?"

"I haven't done anything to him," Merlyn insisted. "We talked. That's all."

"I'll believe that when I see him." She turned her back.

He sighed. "Think about what I've said." He left her then, and the door clanged shut behind him. The bolts and locks echoed as they were closed.

Felicity slumped in the chair, her arms crossed. _Oh sure,_ she thought, her eyes drawn to the strawberries sitting on the desk. _You think I'm going to eat those._ "Well, I'm not," she said out loud. She looked away from the fruit. But, as the only splash of vivid red colour in the otherwise drab beige room, it kept drawing her eye. That glistening, succulent, strawberry red. "Who knows what they could be laced with," she muttered, ripping her gaze away again. "Probably didn't even wash them off. Pesticides..."

Her eyes drifted back. "Fine, I'll just test one." In a moment, she had a strawberry in her hand. "If I taste anything funny or weird or insecticidal..." She bit into it. And oh, the burst of sweet, juicy flavor! Her eyes drifted shut. She finished the strawberry in two more bites and set the green mop of leaves aside.

There, now. See if she passed out, or saw the walls melting. She waited expectantly. Nothing happened. But it could take time. So that was all she was going to eat. She licked her lips, tasting the faint tang of juice.

Maybe... one wasn't a large enough sample. Two. Or maybe three. She was already biting into one. "All right," she muttered, recognizing defeat. "But I'm not going to develop some Pavlovian reaction to Mr. Merlyn's visits."

The strawberries were rapidly vanishing.

Dammit.

===_X_===


	10. Tommy

**Tommy**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

Ever notice how scruffy-looking Tommy was getting? The poor guy, so depressed.

* * *

**Tommy**

===#===

Tommy frowned at the small gift his father had given him: a portable electric razor. What was this trying to say? _You look like bum, but I can't fire you because you're my son_? Almost losing his father made Tommy realize just how much there was to lose. But some days...!

A few minutes later, his father came in. "Is everything ready with the Thurgood accounts?"

"Yes."

"And the reps from Sydney? Did Robin get the presentation updated?"

"Yes, but they wanted to move the meeting to 4:30."

"Dammit!" Malcolm rubbed a hand down his face. "Listen, Tommy, can you do the presentation if I take Thurgood? Robin and Clarence can help with the statistics, if you need them to."

Tommy wondered briefly why his dad couldn't do it. It's not as if he'd never stayed late at work before. But, of course, the senior Merlyn's reasons were his own. "I can do it," he said. "I'll have some extra time to go through the presentation."

"Good. Thank you." Malcolm smiled as he came over to take the file from Tommy. "How's everything else going?"

"Fine. Dad, what's this?" He gestured at the open gift box.

"Oh, I just noticed lately..." He gestured along his jaw, intimating Tommy's five o'clock shadow. "If you don't always have time to shave in the morning, having one of these at the office is handy."

"In other words, you don't like my grooming habits," Tommy said sourly.

"Well, the chicks may dig the rugged look, but some of the Asian businessmen... not so much." He softened his words further with a smile.

"Why do you always do that, Dad? You know? You're always making some kind of veiled gesture or vague comments and suggestions. I hate that. Why don't you just come out and say what it is you mean?"

Malcolm blinked at him a moment. "Um... because you really hate it when you think I'm trying to tell you what to do?"

"Ergh," Tommy sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Is everything all right? You seem... out of sorts, lately."

_Well, that's because my best friend- who, by the way, is also a serial killer- dumped his girlfriend in my lap, and i was _so _happy to finally have a free and clear chance to be with a woman I admired and loved, that I didn't notice right away that she still loved him and he still loved her. And I couldn't stand being the consolation prize any longer, so I foolishly gave up my one true shot at happiness so they could get it on. Except Mr. Murderer told me, _to my face,_ in no uncertain terms, that he could _never _be with her. And stupid me, I thought I still had a shot at winning her love, and I'd be a damned fool not to take it. Just to find out, ha-ha, the joke is on you, Tommy Merlyn, because before I can make a move, they're already naked and doing the dirty deed._

"Is it the job?" his father was asking. "Because you know you can talk to me about it. That's what I'm here for."

"It's not the job." Tommy stared at the desk. "It's personal." His father seemed to be waiting, but he didn't give him anything else.

"You know," Malcolm finally said; "We used to be able to talk. Sometimes I wish we could dump all this baggage we have, all this father and son stuff, and just talk again, like two equals."

"Really," Tommy said; "It's not you. I just don't want to talk about it right now."

"All right."

Tommy reached for the laptop on his desk and started to pull up the presentation file. He stopped when his father spoke again. "I want to tell you something. I know right now isn't the best time to talk about this, but... I've been thinking lately, and I know I haven't been a very good father. I just wanted you to know, I do realize that, and I want to tell you I am sorry."

Tommy gripped the edge of the desk; he thought for sure the office building was shaking. That was it, the ground was going to crack and swallow them up after that revelation. _Where the hell had that come from?_ Tommy didn't know what to say, nor even how he felt.

Malcolm apparently didn't expect a reply. He tucked the file under his arm, turned and walked towards the door.

_My God,_ thought Tommy. _Could he be sick?_ He seemed to be moving in pain. "Dad, are you okay?"

"What?" He turned back.

"You look like you're limping."

"Oh." He grinned sheepishly. "It was fencing practice last night. I pulled my favorite muscle. Again." He made a face, and Tommy had to grimace in sympathy. "I hate when that happens."

"It must be tough, getting old," Tommy said, relieved enough to start teasing. "You should slow down."

"Hey, just because I'm your old man, that doesn't make me old," his father shot back. "We get you out on the strip, we'll see how you do."

"Oh, no. No violent sports for me, thank you. How about racquetball? I seem to recall you used to be quite the hotshot in that one."

A shadow passed briefly over Malcolm's face. "I think I'm definitely past my prime for that." Tommy didn't think that could be true. Perhaps it reminded him too much of Oliver's father. "I know. How about a nice, vigorous, and exciting round of golf?"

"Ugh! Talk about boring!"

"Hey, if it's good enough for Motley Crue..."

"Motley Crue are _old_, Dad," Tommy said, rolling his eyes. "Go on, I have to get some work done."

"Ah, right." He turned back at the door one more time before leaving. "You know what, Tommy? Australians like rugged. You look fine." He waved it off and left.

A smile spread slowly across Tommy's face. Well, his dad was right about one thing: if they could just drop the baggage and talk like two regular guys, it would be really good.

Tommy didn't know if he could completely forgive his father just yet. It was all so sudden. He knew they couldn't get back what they'd lost, or recover those years when his father had all but abandoned him. But the man had made the effort to admit his mistakes. The least Tommy could do was give the old man a chance.

===_X_===


	11. One Phone Call

**One Phone Call**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: a bit

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

Malcolm Merlyn always keeps his promises.

* * *

**One Phone Call**

===#===

_A private holding facility_

"Hang on," Malcolm said into the disposable phone. "I'll connect you." He handed it to Sandra Cartwright, the captain of the mercenary guards. She took it into Felicity's room.

Felicity was sitting in the chair, facing the door, as she'd been instructed. Cartwright handed her the phone. She took it, thumbed the 'End Call' button, then dialled 911.

"Give me that!" The guard made a grab for the phone, but Felicity held it out of reach. The guard slapped her hard across the face and wrested the phone out of her grip.

Cartwright broke the connection and stomped out, slamming the heavy door behind her. "I'm sorry, sir," she said, handing the phone back to Merlyn.

He gritted his teeth. "Tie her to the chair," he said. Cartwright nodded and gestured to one of the other guards. Malcolm turned away and redialled.

===#===

Oliver stared at the phone that had gone dead in his hands. What the hell? A minute later, it rang, and the thumbed the 'Answer' button. "What kind of bullshit are you trying to pull?" he snarled into the phone.

"_Sorry,_" Merlyn said flatly. "_She tried to call out. Give us another minute._"

"If you hurt her, I swear-!" He was talking to a dead phone again. And he did swear.

===#===

Felicity tested the straps holding her wrists and ankles. _Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid..._ They were good and tight. The chair was flimsy enough- they probably didn't want her clobbering anyone with a heavy one- but she didn't think she could bust out of it like some She-Hulk.

The door opened again, and Felicity's heart stopped. The dark hooded figure came towards her, his footfalls surprisingly soft for such a large man. She squirmed helplessly in the chair, emitting a little squeak- completely unintentionally.

What was he going to do? Smack her around? Cut her? Break her fingers? He moved to her right side. Oh God, he was going to garrotte her!

Instead, he held the phone up to her ear with one black-gloved hand. She flinched away, not sure what it was at first. She let out another little gasp of a squeak. "H-Hello?"

"_Felicity?_"

Relief flooded her at Oliver's voice. "Ol-!" She bit her tongue. She almost gave the man in black his name again! God, she sucked at this secret identity business.

"_Felicity, are you all right?_"

"Um, yes," she said, glancing up at the dark form looming over her, holding the phone. "He's here," she whispered, though the assassin could hear hear better than Oliver could.

"_Who's there?_" When she couldn't do more than squeak, Oliver said, "_Is it Merlyn?_"

"No. No, the, uh..." She licked her dry lips. She expected he didn't care for being called a 'copycat.' "The man in black."

===#===

Oliver frowned. Felicity didn't know about Merlyn's double identity? He clenched his teeth. Judging by the fear in her voice, the information wouldn't be helpful right now. Instead, he just tried to reassure her. "Take it easy," he said soothingly. "Everything is going to be all right. Did they hurt you?"

"_N-No,_" she stammered. "_Well, the guard did bitch-slap me when I tried to dial 911._"

"You tried to dial 911?" He bit his lip to keep from laughing. "Was that when you hung up on me?"

"_Was that you? Oh, gee. Sorry._"

"It's fine," he said, but he wasn't sure she heard him, because she started one of those Felicity stream-of-consciousness babbles.

===#===

She hung up on Oliver? Oops! "Sorry, really. I don't know why I did that. I didn't mean to," she added hurriedly, looking up at Darth Vader, here. And surely the Emperor, Malcolm Merlyn, was listening in. "Really, I didn't. I just sort of had a Lisa Simpson moment, there, and it's not like I could've actually _told_ them anything."

"_Felicity, I promise, it's going to be okay._"

"I want to go home," she whimpered. Why wasn't Oliver telling her their rescue plans? She would have to be ready, right? "When can I go home?"

"_Listen to me very carefully,_" he said. She leaned her head closer to the phone. "_Don't be afraid. Stay calm. Just do whatever they tell you._"

"Wh-What?" Her blood ran cold. Did Oliver just tell her to capitulate?

"_Promise me you won't do anything. I need your word on this._"

"But...," her voice came out as a sob. "But when can I go home?"

"_I'm working on that, Felicity. Just please._" His voice sounded almost desperate. "_Please, please tell me you'll do what they ask. I don't want to see you hurt._"

She blinked and a tear escaped from her eye. "Okay," she managed. She'd been counting on the Vigilante to save her. He'd saved Walter! Why wouldn't he come rescue her?

===#===

"Don't be afraid, Felicity. We're going to get through this." Oliver rubbed his forehead. Dammit, he couldn't do anything better for her than this. Empty words. He wanted so badly to just hit Merlyn. To lay into the bastard, knock him down, and yes, kick the shit out of him until his ribs were pulp. His body burned with the desire to fight, but it was pointless. Diggle would go to prison. Felicity... He had no doubt that if anything happened to Merlyn, she'd be killed. "Just don't do anything rash. We're going to get through this."

He couldn't win. Getting through this with his friends alive would have to do.

For now.

===#===

"Say goodbye," the Dark Archer growled.

"Okay. G-Goodbye," Felicity said into the phone.

The man pulled it away and said into it, "Your time is up." He listened a moment, then said, "Just keep up your end of the deal." He clicked off.

Felicity felt a pang of loss. She inhaled through her nose, a long sniff, because her nasal passages were starting to feel a bit moist. She wasn't going to cry, though. Not until they untied her and left her alone.

The Dark Archer tucked the phone into his vest, but he didn't leave. He moved to stand in front of her. She gulped and looked up at him. "You tried to escape," he said flatly, the voice-changer rendering it into a dire threat.

"I... No, I- th-that was just a momentary lapse in judgment." Her heart hammered. "_Very_ momentary! I-I swear, it won't happen again." She tried to meet his eyes, but they were in shadow. She pulled against the restraints. "What are you going to do? Beat up a girl? Just because Mr. Merlyn tells you to? To a helpless, tied-up girl? Because he's too much of a wuss to do his own dirty work?"

The leather of his gloves creaked as he clenched his hand into a fist. Felicity tensed in anticipation of a blow, but none came. "You will not be harmed, as long as your friends don't try to cross Malcolm Merlyn." She sensed a 'but' in there and held her breath. "But your actions will have their own consequences." He reached towards her face, his hand opening. She pushed back against the chair; it didn't seem so flimsy, now. He grasped her glasses by the corner and gently pulled them from her face. Oh, that was considerate. They'd already taken a whack from the guard. Now she was going to get it. She braced once more, but he turned away, towards the desk, then walked out.

What?

A minute later, the guards came in and untied her. They neither said nor did anything. They left again, securing the door. Well, that was bizarre. It wasn't as if she needed her glasses to see. They were just for reading and looking at computer screens all day.

Then when she pushed the chair back to the desk, she noticed the paperback book missing. It was only a trashy vampire/werewolf romance-adventure, but it was the only entertainment she had. She sighed and looked around. Well, now there was nothing to do but sit in the chair and stare at the wall, or lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

Boredom: an insidious torment.

===_X_===

* * *

_End Notes:_

"I just sort of had a Lisa Simpson moment, there,..."

- i love this lisa simpson moment! it's in the episode where mr burns is trying to dognap and skin all the greyhoud puppies, and lisa and bart are trapped in his basement with them. snide mr burns goes, 'here's a phone. call someone who cares.' while actually handing over a cell phone. so lisa grabs it and punches in 911. 'give me that!' burns snaps. that was like a one-girl intellectual misfit mobilization moment. it rocked!


	12. Scars

**Scars**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: sparring

Nudity: Oliver takes his shirt off

Sex: none

Other: reference to self-harm

_Author's Note:_

Also contains sparring banter. Don't read too much into it.

* * *

**Scars**

===#===

Merlyn became a regular visitor to the club's basement. He hadn't moved in, exactly, but he came by every couple of days. Oliver had considered changing the keycode on the lock, but in the interest of building up this 'trust' between them, he hadn't.

Merlyn showed him some training techniques, like the hanging rings or split willow wands for archery targets, and how to throw darts at a spinning target. He'd told Oliver how much he liked the tennis ball exercises, and the younger man showed him the whole-basket-at-once trick. But Merlyn never brought his bow.

"How are your ribs?" he asked Oliver one day. He looked as if he were ready to go to the racquetball club, wearing a track suit instead of a business suit.

Oliver took a deep breath, expanding his chest, lifting his shoulder blades. Nothing twinged. "They're good. How's your shoulder?"

Merlyn winced as he rolled it experimentally. "Not bad. We should spar."

Oliver's stomach tightened in apprehension. So far, the two men hadn't really trained together. They'd competed for points at the throwing target to hone their motivation to excel. Oliver itched to try himself against Merlyn in a bit of archery, but he realized the wisdom in avoiding that. _What does every archer want? To see who's the best._ The competitiveness would have gone beyond 'fierce' and directly into 'dangerous.' Now Merlyn wanted to go head to head? "What kind of sparring?" he asked hesitantly.

"Oh, light contact? Just to warm up. No strikes to the head." He grinned wryly. "Some of us have to be seen in public and not look like we just got mugged."

"I don't know what good it will do," Oliver said morosely. "I already know I can't beat you, even going all out."

A half smile tugged at the side of Merlyn's mouth. To Oliver's surprise, he said, "You will." Oliver looked up to meet that frank gaze. It held no trickery, no malice, only a sort of worldly-wise detachment. "You have your youth, your strength and speed," Merlyn told him. "Like a young lion challenging an established male. The older one may be bigger; he'll have some experience on him. But eventually, he'll decline."

Oliver didn't know what to say. It almost sounded as if Merlyn expected Oliver to kill him, someday at least. But they were men, not animals. Oliver shook the strange feeling off.

"Anyway," Merlyn continued lightly; "you don't have to worry about winning or not." He started taking off his jacket, clearly not about to take 'no' for an answer. "We'll just work on building the reflexes back up."

Resigned, Oliver peeled his t-shirt off over his head and tossed it on the side table. Merlyn left on his white muscle shirt, but Oliver could see the tail end of a few scars across his shoulders. Oliver once thought he could pass his scars off as incidental injuries from the island, or flippantly as old dueling injuries, but no. His scars were a mess of melted-wax burns and thick, jagged pink ropes that spoke of heavy blades, thrust very deeply and drawn very slowly. Not like the thin white scars Merlyn bore. He turned, and Oliver could see more of them, ladder-like on the inside of his left forearm. The young archer frowned. They couldn't be defensive wounds, and they didn't seem regular enough to form a design.

Suddenly, he realized he was staring. He lifted his eyes, the same time Merlyn looked up from studying Oliver's scars. The two men locked gazes for several moments.

Merlyn spoke first. "They always talk about you being alone on that island for five years."

"Yeah...," Oliver deflected with morbid humor; "For a deserted island, it was rather crowded."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

Oliver shook his head. He didn't actually mind, this time. Truth be told, if anyone on this earth could understand what Oliver had to live through, it was probably Merlyn. Slowly, still reluctant, he followed the other man out to the center of the room.

Merlyn got into a ready stance. "Come on." He gestured for Oliver to attack him.

His confidence only increased Oliver's trepidation. He didn't want to try to hold his own, only to be beaten again. "I don't-"

Suddenly, a fist shot towards his face. He leaned back, blocked, and countered without thinking. And just like that, he was in the thick of it, exchanging a flurry of blows.

He jumped back to disengage, a little annoyed that Merlyn had once again tapped into his base instincts, yet rather proud that his reflexes were so well-honed. He put his guard up. "I thought you said no head shots."

Merlyn grinned as he circled. "I knew that wouldn't connect."

"Like this?" Oliver feinted at his head, then went low. This time, he retained more control over the flow of the exchange.

"Now you're catching on."

"In other words, you cheat." Instead of a strike, Oliver lunged to grab the other man.

Merlyn somehow deflected him, turned, and snaked his arm through Oliver's, which he wrapped up in a hammer-lock. He pulled the young man against the side of his hip, preventing him from kicking. He seized Oliver's other elbow in his free hand, before the latter could ram it into his ribs. "_You_ cheat," Merlyn panted in his ear. "I like to call what I do 'Creative Problem Solving.'" He gave Oliver a light slap on the shoulder and released him.

Oliver spun and dropped into a fighting crouch. Merlyn backed and waited for him to come in. Oliver steadied his breath and reminded himself to keep his cool. He closed, throwing his standard practice combo, and studied his opponent's reactions. He began to relax, suppressing his need to win, and his apprehension of losing. This was just a physical exercise, with no goal.

The easy strikes became a flurry of blows, the light contact graduated to medium.

"You fight hard style," Merlyn panted as they fought. "Chinese?"

"Very." Oliver performed a hard block, then jumped in and stomped (lightly) on his opponent's lead foot. "And a little Black Ops."

"American?"

"Australian."

"Ah."

Close in, there wasn't much room for techniques other than body blows, an elbow to the face, or a knee to the groin, so they tacitly agreed to move back.

"Now I studied...," Merlyn continued; "In India... and Tibet." He deflected and redirected Oliver's punches. "A more circular style." His hands snaked under or around Oliver's guard. "Like the wave... against the rock."

Oliver grinned wryly. _Congratulations, Shado, you got the last laugh. I'm fighting water._ "Is it better?"

"No. Different... Different strengths." He ducked under Oliver's right cross, thrust against his elbow to use his momentum to turn him, and tagged him in the kidney. It was a hell of a lot gentler than Slade ever hit him, just a tap really, to let him know how the technique exposed his weakness. "Water... is hard to block."

"And different weaknesses?"

"Yep."

"Such as?"

"You'll find out, I'm sure," Merlyn said with a grin.

Oliver growled, but it was a playful growl. Once he loosened up, he found he actually enjoyed sparring with Malcolm.

===#===

Finally, Merlyn was ready to call it quits. Both men were huffing for breath; sweat poured over their skin. Malcolm gripped Oliver's hand. "Good match." When he clasped Oliver on the arm, Oliver found his eyes drawn once more to the scars on his forearm. With his skin ruddy from exertion, they stood out more.

Oliver looked up questioningly, but Merlyn quickly turned away. He went to the side table and grabbed a towel. He threw one Oliver's way, without really looking. Oliver caught it and moved to grab a bottle of water as well.

"I know what you're thinking, about the scars," Merlyn said after wiping his face dry. "You're thinking, 'Well, that's a stupid way to try to kill yourself. Anyone who's serous about it knows to cut lengthwise, down between the muscles, to open the arteries. You bleed out faster.'"

Oliver was taken aback. Kill himself? "No, that's not-"

"It's all right." He patted more sweat from his face and neck. "I wasn't trying to kill myself. I was more... self-destructive than suicidal."

Oliver bit his lip. Merlyn still didn't look at him. He set the towel down, staring absently through it. "When Rebecca was killed...," he then said softly, "I hurt, so bad, inside." His face creased in remembered pain. "And yet, outside, there was nothing- not a mark, not a blemish." He shook his head. "Everything just went on, the way it was before. The world kept going, as if it didn't notice that the bright spark of her life had been extinguished. As if it didn't care." He slowly ran his thumb over the ridges of scar tissue. "When I cut myself, I could see it. I could focus, and control the pain."

He seemed lost in his own thoughts, and Oliver hardly dared to breathe.

"I met a man in Nanda Parbat. He taught me how I could transform my pain. Instead of being a weakness, I could turn it into a weapon." Now he looked over. Oliver could see the shadow of pain behind his eyes. "I know it can never bring Rebecca back. I can't even have vengeance, because they never found her killer. But I can make a difference. I know you understand what I mean, Oliver, when I say the pain I've been through has empowered me to do something about it."

Mutely, Oliver nodded.

Malcolm turned, looking out beyond the walls of the basement. "When I look out my office window at the city... Especially at night, when the lights glitter... And when the first rays of sun hit the skyscrapers, and they gleam all pink and golden and new... I can only see how beautiful it is. But I know that inside, it is hurting. There are elements poisoning this city. I want to take control. I want to excise the evil. I..." He stopped and rubbed his face. "God, I sound like an evangelist."

"No," Oliver said. "No, you're right. I know exactly what you mean."

Malcolm looked at him, his eyes moving over the scars that marked Oliver's body. "Because we have come through the pain, we've lost our fear. Others... their fears keep them chained. They can't make the hard decisions that men like you and I know have to be made." He looked Oliver in the eye. "Like Tommy, like your mother. They can't understand."

Oliver nodded again, slowly absorbing this. They couldn't condone murder, but he was not murdering people. He was a vigilante; he was dispensing justice, protecting the innocent. Doing the things that needed to be done, but that the police were constrained from doing.

Oliver looked at Malcolm with new understanding. _My God, he's right,_ he realized. _I am him._

===_X_===

* * *

_"I like to call what I do 'Creative Problem Solving.'"_

-He TOTALLY stole that from me! (tm) Bloodsong


	13. A Small Mission

**A Small Mission**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Humor

Language: some

Violence: not quite

Nudity: a bit

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

Mission situation inspired by an episode of Sledge Hammer (minus the Satanic cult).

* * *

**A Small Mission**

===#===

Oliver was 'working at the club' early again. He was too restless to stay at home. He could have sat in his office and had his coffee and bagel while he read the paper, but he'd gravitated to the basement once more. Maybe that's why the small article on Dan Forcrest had caught his eye, because he was in hunting mode.

He shoved the bagel in his mouth and grabbed his father's list. Yes, the name was here. He set the book on his lap, grabbed the bagel and bit off a big chunk, and rolled his chair over to Felicity's computer.

He knew how to do this. Search terms: Starling City, Dan Forcrest... It wasn't an official rap sheet, but all the news articles over the years came up and painted the same picture: a small time loan shark and swindler, bilking pensioners out of their money.

Oliver's heart pounded. This was the perfect case for a solo run. Go in, make a threat. Get results. He should do it.

But he hesitated.

That had been all well and good when he'd first arrived back home. But since the Vigilante had become more well-known, the crooks were getting smarter. More cautious. You never knew what might happen, which was why having backup was so important. With Diggle still in jail, that left...

Oliver's gaze slid over to his phone.

===#===

"You wanted to talk to me?" Tommy poked his head into the office and heard his dad on the phone. Barely five minutes between meetings, and the guy was still talking. Malcolm glanced up and flashed Tommy a welcoming smile before turning back to his conversation. "All right... I can get you that... When and where? ...I'll be there." He clicked off.

"More business?" Tommy asked with mild curiosity.

"It's like the sun never sets on the Merlyn Global empire. -Oh, that's right; it doesn't!" Malcolm grinned.

"Oh my God, that was corny," he complained, making his father chuckle. "Hey, I was thinking... if this next meeting goes well- and finishes on time," he griped- "maybe we can grab a drink after work or something."

"That sounds good." Malcolm smiled. "Listen, I have to make another call. I'll see you downstairs in a few."

"Okay."

===#===

The day stretched out forever before the night slipped over Starling City. Oliver crept along the northwest corner of the building across from Forcrest's. He double-checked the inky shadows, and sure enough, the Dark Archer was already there, nearly invisible. Oliver crouched beside him so he didn't leave a silhouette.

He held out a hand, and Merlyn took the earbud. He did something to it a moment, then slipped it under his hood. The basso sound of the voice-changer came through the comm. "_Testing._"

"Copy." Oliver watched the windows to the target's apartment suite. They were well lit, but he saw no movement. "Did you get the information?"

"Three days."

"You're sure he can get all the money that soon?"

"If he works at it," the Dark Archer assured him coldly. "Any longer, and he may be tempted to flee with it."

"All right."

"The guards are in their usual positions," Merlyn volunteered without being asked. "Two upstairs, one on the front door."

Not that Oliver was going in the front door, of course. The other guards lived in the suite across the hall from Forcrest. He liked his privacy, but they were within calling distance. "I'm going in alone. You stay here; if I need you, I'll tell you." He shot a glance at the shadow next to him. "No killing."

"Understood."

"I'll leave the mic open." He moved to the edge of the building and worked his way down. He'd already been past here on his motorcycle this afternoon, plotting his route.

He got into the huge apartment suite and padded through the rooms, an arrow on the string of his new bow. He frowned as he failed to find his quarry. Had Forcrest gone out? Leaving all the lights on? He ought to bust the guy for wasting energy, too.

Oliver crept through the kitchen and on towards the master bedroom. Now he heard signs of life. Some sort of music. Opera? The bedroom was dark, but light spilled out from under the bathroom door. Oliver heard the rushing spray of water under the robust showtune Forcrest was belting out.

"He's... in the shower."

He didn't realize he'd actually murmured into the open mic until the Dark Archer's voice rumbled in his ear. "_At least you won't have to worry about concealed weapons._"

"That's not funny," Oliver hissed. "He's... _literally_ singing in the shower." He wasn't half bad, either.

"_You want to scare him._" With the voice-changer, it was hard to tell if Merlyn was amused, or just annoyed.

Oliver cursed underbreath. He tried the door; it was locked. Who locks the door to their bathroom when they live alone? He worked on jimmying the door.

He got that open, and steam wafted out. The bathroom was brilliantly lit, with a triple mirror and a lot of polished reflective surfaces. Oliver worried that the room would reveal more of his features than he cared to.

So he backed up and turned on a small bedside table lamp. Then, arrow nocked once more, he flicked off the bathroom lights and stepped inside. He pulled the fletching to his ear.

Forcrest's voice cut off in mid-chorus. He swiped the shower curtain aside to peer out and squealed a couple of octaves above middle C. "Eek!"

"Daniel Forcrest," Oliver rumbled like the Voice of God; "You have failed this city."

"Eek!" The man clutched the shower curtain around himself with one hand and wiped water out of his eyes with the other. "Don't kill me!"

"You have three days to return the money you've collected on your new Ponzi scheme."

"B-b-but, three? I-"

"If you do not return all the money in three days' time, I will be back. And you _will_ pay for your crimes with your life."

"And-and-and even if I do, your crazy, psycho buddy is gonna kill me anyway?"

Well, that was one interpretation of the two archers that had appeared in Starling City, going after the same targets. It hadn't been true... at the time, anyway. Oliver had to smirk at Forcrest's assessment of Merlyn. "Do not try to contact the police. Do not try to hide or flee this city. And I'm sure that won't happen."

"Okay," he squeaked in a tiny voice.

Oliver stepped back, lowering the bow and hooking the doorknob with the upper limb to draw the door closed after him. He swiftly exited the bedroom, pulling that door closed as well.

He started towards the kitchen when the Dark Archer's voice halted him. "_There's a patrol car out front._" What the hell? Oliver's heart raced. Did Merlyn set him up to get caught? "_Disable his phone. If he calls now, they can divert them to your location._"

Phone? Where was Forcrest's phone? In the bedroom? No, he hadn't seen it on the end table when he'd turned on the lamp. There- on the kitchen counter, in the charger.

Oliver grabbed the phone and yanked out the power pack. After looking around a moment, he put the handset in the refrigerator, and then took the battery to the living room to stuff it between the couch cushions.

Meanwhile, Merlyn was relaying what the patrolmen were doing. "_They're investigating the alley. Someone must have seen or heard something._" Oliver cursed vehemently, but not out loud. This would be the perfect stunt for Merlyn to pull to make Oliver trust and depend on him. "_I'm searching for an alternate exit route,_" the Dark Archer said calmly. "_Can you get to the roof without using the fire escape?_"

"Working," Oliver muttered. Never mind the cops, what if Forcrest yelled for his goons? He returned to the master bedroom door; Forcrest hadn't yet emerged. Oliver looped his nylon rope around the doorknob, then tied the other end to a closet door. That ought to slow Forcrest down a good bit. He just hoped he hadn't missed a cell phone in the bedroom or bath.

"_The police are still in the alley. There is another building south of you, but it is four storeys higher._"

"Any facing windows?"

"_Only on the top two floors. The rest are bricked over._"

Well, Oliver, no rope means no grappling hook. But brick could mean handholds... toeholds at least. Maybe he could use a pair of darts as pitons in the mortar.

He moved to the front of the apartment, making sure not to crouch or skulk, just in case anyone saw movement through the windows. He listened at the door, but heard nothing. He undid the chain, bolt, and lock, then slipped out into the hall. He moved silently to the door leading to the roof.

_Emergency door_, he read. _Alarm will sound._

"Shit."

"_The police have finished in the alley. They're on the radio._"

Oliver looked over his shoulder. He could try to go back to the apartment and leave the way he came in, or try to get to the roof. If the alley wasn't clear by the time he traipsed back through Forcrest's place... he could always pass the time playing cards with the crook- or hell, they could do a couple of showtune duets.

With a grimace, Oliver pulled a dart from his wrist sheath and started prying open the door's alarm box.

===#===

Oliver assessed the situation on the roof. The south route up the side of the next building did not look promising. He could still access this building's fire escape. "Has the patrol car moved off yet?"

"_Not yet._"

"Dammit."

"_I can get to the south building with a rope,_" Merlyn offered.

"Not just yet," Oliver insisted. He leaned over the retaining wall and spotted the police car. After a few minutes, they put it in gear and pulled out into the street. They didn't go far, only to the next alley. "Something is up," Oliver muttered. Gratefully, he went to the fire escape and began to climb down.

Then he heard yelling from Forcrest's apartment. He peered down through the grille; the crook was chewing out his goons. Right in front of the damned window. "Crap like this never happens with Diggle as backup," Oliver muttered. Oops, open mic. There was only silence in reply.

Since he couldn't climb down the fire escape ladder without crossing in front of the window where the goons would see him, Oliver climbed down the outside of the iron balconies. It would be faster if he could just drop from level to level, but someone might hear, especially policemen investigating alleys just a few doors down.

Finally, Oliver got to the ground. "Is the street clear?"

"_Yes._"

"I'm going straight to my ride. You can clear out; we're finished here."

"_Understood. Over and out._"

Oliver clicked off his mic. He put his hood down and tucked the bow against his arm to cross the street. He made it to his bike without incident, but he didn't breathe easily until he was several blocks away.

He cruised faster than was strictly necessary to get back to the club's basement. He washed up, re-dressed, and went upstairs. He was still jazzed up from the mission. In fact, he might have to work off some energy. He trotted up the stairs to the office and closed the door behind him. It was supposed to be sound-proof up here, but the bass beat still thrummed through the walls.

Oliver paced as he speed-dialled Laurel. She answered on the third ring. "_Hey, Oliver. What's up?_"

"I was wondering if you'd like to come down to the club tonight," he said hopefully.

"_Tonight? Oliver, sweetheart, some of us have regular, daytime jobs and need to be awake in the morning._"

"It's not that late, is it?" He peered around at the office clock.

"_It's past 10:30._" She didn't sound angry, only a little bemused and indulgent. "_How did that business meeting thing go? You sound upbeat._"

"Yes." He smiled. "It went well. A few little hitches, but it turned out fine."

"_Good; I'm glad._"

"Hey, if you don't want to go out, do you want me to come over? For a nightcap?"

"_That sounds great, Ollie, but really, I'm exhausted. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?_"

"Okay. Good night."

"_Night, Ollie. I love you._"

"Love you too, sweetie." He clicked the phone off with a melancholy sigh. He really wished he could talk to her about his 'business meeting,' and all the fine details. They could hash out what it might mean that the patrol car just happened to show up while he was inside. Without Diggle or Felicity, he had no one to talk to, no way to 'debrief,' as it were. Felicity could dig up police reports and figure out what they'd been doing there.

And if Tommy were here... and didn't hate him... he could at least work off some of this excess energy.

Oliver looked out the tinted window at the crowd below. He supposed it wasn't untoward for a dance club owner to mingle with the patrons. Make sure everyone was having a good time. He had to keep up with his wild bachelor appearance, after all.

Where was the harm? It wasn't as if he'd be cruising and betraying Laurel. Just having some honest fun.

===#===

Laurel wasn't sure what she'd expected when Oliver had told her that he'd put his troubles behind him and could really focus on being with her. She didn't know what that meant, but all she had heard at the time was his devotion to her, and the joyous singing of her heart telling her how right it was for them to be together.

She hadn't expected him to move in with her, not right away. Truth be told, it was too soon since Tommy had moved out. She was still finding things he'd left behind: a toothbrush, a can of shaving cream, an occasional sock that turned up in the oddest places. It didn't seem right to just replace him with Oliver, like changing a light bulb.

And she certainly knew better than to push Oliver for them to get a new apartment together. He could flee for another five years, she thought morosely as she ran the hot water and got ready for her shower.

No, she was ready to take it slowly, patiently, and let Oliver dictate the pace. She tried not to worry that Oliver's pace seemed to run the same hot and cold as before. He seemed devout in his love when he'd confessed it. Then went back to avoiding her when he got sick. She supposed that five years of isolation had caused his immune system to fall behind the current trends of flu virus.

Then he'd been busy catching up at the club. Then he was hovering around CNRI every day, wanting to take her to dinner after work. She'd agreed eagerly to that, figuring that they'd talk, finally. But no, he still didn't want to discuss what had happened to him on the island. He was interested in her work, but client/counsel privilege limited what she could say about that. That pretty much left her trying to catch him up with current music and entertainment trends, or somewhat awkward silence.

Then afterward, he wouldn't come home with her, citing work at the club. And she'd been falling further and further behind on the paperwork she usually took home with her on the weeknights. And where was this all going? Was it going to end up that she slept all night while he worked, he slept all day while she worked, and they only saw each other on the weekends?

_He needs time_, she told herself. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the hot shower spray. It took him five years to get to the lost, lonely place where he was. He wasn't going to come back to himself in just a few months. What if it took another five years?

She would just have to be patient.

===_X_===


	14. Diggle's Return

**Diggle's Return**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: no

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

I had a really wild, dramatic version of this conversation, then toned it down with a newer version... and then ended up using most of the dramatic one, anyway. What can I say? You know what I like!

* * *

**Diggle's Return**

===#===

Things continued, slowly improving. Forcrest had coughed up the money, though he'd cut it pretty close. Oliver was glad he didn't have to pay another visit to his apartment, not with Merlyn. He never did find out what was going on with the police that night. The police didn't advertise their work, and he couldn't just call up and ask. Felicity probably could have found out, but Felicity still wasn't back.

He'd gone up to Merlyn's eyrie a few times, at odd hours, demanding to see her. The businessman always accommodated him, always had a video feed he could turn on so Oliver could watch Felicity like an animal in the zoo. He'd spoken with her once more, but there wasn't much he could say. He tried to reassure her, but she did not sound happy.

_Patience_, he heard Yao Fei's voice tell him. Oliver was fairly sure that Merlyn wouldn't harm Felicity, the same way he had never truly harmed Walter. He was a dangerous man, make no mistake, but he was reasonable. Despite Oliver's instinct not to trust him, he seemed sincere. Oliver had to be completely impartial in his judgment. The man he was starting to know was so different than he'd expected.

===#===

Then came the day Merlyn kept his first promise: Diggle was being released, all charges dropped. Oliver met him outside the courthouse. "Welcome back," he said with a tight smile as the two men clasped hands and shared a brotherly embrace.

They didn't say much more on the way to the club. Only once they were in the basement could they be free to talk. Diggle turned to him. "Okay, Oliver, what the hell happened that night?"

"Merlyn discovered the Trojan on his system. He knew we were coming. It was a trap."

"All right, but he didn't kill you. Why?"

"Because of my father," he said. "Because of my mother. They're all old friends." Those ties ran deep, the loyalty and friendship between Merlyn and Queen.

"But he couldn't know it was you- could he?"

"Not until I was unconscious."

Diggle's face creased in concern. "So they took off the hood before they finished you. Guess that was lucky. But what about the Undertaking? Where's the Markov device? And where's Felicity?"

"The Undertaking is on hold." Oliver paced, uncomfortable with the direct assault of questions. Demands. "Merlyn still has the device. And Felicity."

"Well, where?"

"I don't know."

"If it's the same place he had Walter, we can raid it again and-"

"No!"

"Oliver-"

He faced the soldier. "We can't do anything that would put Felicity in danger," he said slowly, retaining calm control.

"She is in danger as long as she's a prisoner!" Diggle argued.

"He won't harm her, if we don't try some stupid heroic stunt."

Diggle gaped at him, taken aback. "What's gotten into you? Stupid heroic stunts were your bread and butter."

Feeling guilty and ashamed, Oliver avoided his eyes. He looked towards the empty computer stations.

"It's that Dark Archer, isn't it?" Diggle asked quietly. "He beat you again, and you lost that confidence it took you so long to build back up. Look, you can't let this cripple you. As long as you're alive, you can still fight. You _will_ win." He moved closer, but Oliver still didn't look up. "Unless you give up. Do we know anything about this guy? Who he is, where he trained...?"

"It's him."

"Who?"

"Malcolm Merlyn."

Diggle frowned at him for half a minute. "You're telling me... Malcolm Merlyn... is the Dark Archer?" Not looking up, Oliver nodded. "So- let me get this straight," Diggle said slowly. "Malcolm Merlyn is the guy who- no offense Ollie- kicked the shit out of you last Christmas?"

"Yes." The word felt like lead in his mouth.

"And then...?"

"Yes, he kicked the shit out of me again! Is that what you want to hear?" Oliver flashed a look at Diggle, then turned and moved away.

"You're afraid of him."

He whirled back. "I am not!"

"What did he do to you?"

"Nothing!" Oliver raked his hand through his hair in frustration. He took a few breaths and marshaled his thoughts. Diggle didn't understand. "Malcolm Merlyn isn't our enemy. We both want the same thing."

The soldier folded his arms. "Last I recall, we were about saving lives, not destroying half of Starling City."

"I know it's a little extreme..."

"A _little?_"

"But the original purpose of the Undertaking was to wipe out crime and corruption. Merlyn's agreed to hold off on his plans while we try less drastic measures."

"We?"

"I've agreed to work with him t-"

"Oliver, you _what?_"

He huffed in frustration. "He and I have the same goals," he explained.

"You were supposed to defeat this guy, not join him!" The anger in Diggle's voice rang through the basement. He wasn't listening.

"He's not some Pol Pot."

"No, of course not. I was thinking more along the lines of a Hitler!"

Oliver raised his own voice. "You don't know a thing about him!"

Diggle started ticking off points on his fingers. "I know he murdered two guys after they agreed to the Hood's terms; I know he tried to kill you- twice; I know he planned to cause a city-wide disaster that would kill thousands of innocent people. And what about those UNIDAC employees that were killed? The people who invented the device? That was hardly a coincidence." He threw his hands in the air. "What else do I need to know?"

"He's made some mistakes, but he's suffered a lot from violent crime in the Glades."

"That is not an excuse for murdering innocents, Oliver. _Innocents!_"

"I know that!" he snapped, trying to keep his footing as his convictions were shaken. "But he has agreed to put the Undertaking on hold." That had to be worth something. Not the slayings at UNIDAC, nothing could ever atone for that, but it was worth something. Merlyn was willing to come back from the brink.

Diggle only shook his head. "Put on hold? Oliver, that's businessman bullshit for 'we're going to hide this under the rug until resistance dies down.'"

"You don't understand him like I do."

"What, have you guys been dating?"

Oliver gritted his teeth.

"Because you know, that's just what the abused wife says about her bastard husband."

Rage flashed through Oliver, but when he spoke, his voice was quiet, calm. "You know what, Diggle? I really appreciate the times you've been there for me. You've had my back. You've covered for me. You've pulled my ass out of the fire; I'll never forget that." He squeezed the heat of anger down until his words were ice cold. "But I don't actually need you any more. He can do that now."

"He can? The Dark Archer is going to watch your back?" Diggle asked dryly. "The last time he saw it, he put three arrows in it."

"He's not our enemy."

"He's such a good, trustworthy guy, that you're going to let him 'go green' and stand in for you when you need it?"

Oliver's anger began to slip its leash. "He'd be a damn' sight better than you. At least he can shoot!"

"What has gotten into you, Oliver?"

"If you don't like how I run my operation, you know where the door is."

Diggle actually turned away in disgust. He stopped after only a few steps, then sighed and turned back around. "Is this some bullshit ploy to get me to leave, so Merlyn can't use me as leverage against you?"

Oliver clenched his jaw.

"This is not the time to be pushing your friends away. We're not beaten, Oliver. We can still win this." He returned to Oliver's side. "If we get Felicity back-"

"He'll use the Markov device."

"Well, if we find that-"

"He'll hurt Felicity."

Diggle let out a growl and clenched his hands behind his head. "We can't just sit here doing nothing!" He flung his arms out in frustration.

"This isn't a game," Oliver told him. "The stakes are too high."

"There must be something we can do."

"I'm trying to get him to trust me. Once he knows I won't do anything, then he'll let Felicity go."

"Do you sincerely believe his word on that?"

"I trust his promise to harm Felicity if we don't uphold our end of the deal." Oliver held Diggle's gaze. "Do you doubt that?"

"No." He slumped in defeat. "But the Oliver I used to know would not just sit around while his friend was held prisoner. What the hell did he do to you?"

Oliver shook his head. He didn't feel different. It just seemed more prudent to help Felicity by not forcing Merlyn's hand. "You should go home, Diggle. Get some rest. Celebrate your freedom. If you can't trust me to handle this my way... then don't come back."

===_X_===

* * *

_End Notes:_

If you want to read the Green & Black AU/AU snippet entitled "The Prisoner," now is the best time. Just remember it's not canon to this story. "The Prisoner" is an AU that explores what might happen if someone breaks the deal with Merlyn. Warning: contains evil!Merlyn and Felicity in Peril.


	15. Privileges

**Privileges**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: none

Nudity: nearly

Sex: none

Other: a bit of non-violent psychological torture (aftermath)

_Author's Note:_

Oh, I'm sorry; did you think Merlyn was getting a bit too fluffy? Never fear...

* * *

**Privileges**

===#===

_A private holding facility_

Felicity sat huddled in the dark and contemplated her old cell. It hadn't been that bad, really. The industrial beige had been kinda homey. It had had furniture. And its own little bathroom. And a window that let in light.

She had scoured every inch of the place, pulled out every empty drawer in the desk, tested every screw in the bedframe and the commode. She found nothing, nor formulated any plans. But she'd at least tried. A few more throws of that chair, and she might've broken the damned camera.

Oliver had told her to be good. She had tried. But that bastard fat-cat Merlyn made it really difficult. All he wanted in exchange for her freedom was for her to betray all her morals.

No matter how smart he made that seem, no matter how enticing, she couldn't bring herself to do it. She should just lie, pretend to capitulate, cross her fingers and promise to be his new best friend. It's not like he didn't deserve to be lied to and taken advantage of. But when she tried, her tongue froze to the roof of her mouth, and her words turned to ash in her throat.

They could break her body, they could destroy her mind. But she would never surrender her spirit.

She hoped.

Her new cell was in the basement. No windows. It was always dark, because there were no lights. If there was a camera, it must be infrared. The furnishings consisted of a couple of blankets in one corner and a bucket in another.

Sometimes when they brought her scraps of food, they brought an empty bucket to exchange it. Not always.

Her old cell hadn't had a clock, for which she could only be grateful. She would have driven herself nuts staring at the minutes dragging on. This cell didn't even have that tiny barred window to tell whether it was day or night. She'd been counting how many times they brought food, but after a while, that sort of went hazy. Her mind tried to advance the number, just for something to do.

The bolt on the door slammed, startling her. She squinted at the bright light streaming in from the hall and scuttled back like a cockroach. A shadow blocked the light, a man's silhouette. Felicity didn't call Oliver's name. She'd given up on him ever coming to rescue her. That only happened in her dreams. Some of them, anyway. In others, the hooded figure was solid black, and what happened after he stepped into her cell made her scream herself awake.

Felicity coiled up on the blankets, hugging her knees to her chest with one hand and trying to tug her shift down to cover herself with the other. They'd taken all her clothes and left her with what was essentially a pillowcase with a hole for her head and two for her arms. The rest barely reached down to her thighs, so she really couldn't expect to be decently covered while she sat like this. But she was too frightened not to curl up. She snatched up the ragged blankets.

She didn't look up as the man walked towards her, so she only saw his expensive shoes and dress slacks. She didn't need to see his face to know who he was.

"Felicity." Malcolm Merlyn's voice was soft, cordial.

She neither answered nor looked up. She was so numb from being afraid and alone, she had to wonder why her body trembled.

"You're a brilliant, intelligent young woman," he said above her. "We don't need to play these games. You know how this works." Tears spilled from her eyes. His voice hardened ever so slightly. "If you cooperate, you earn privileges. Eventually, you earn your freedom. If you resist, if you rebel, if you try to escape... you lose privileges."

Felicity sniffled. She suppressed a whimper, but she couldn't stop crying.

"Are you ready to start cooperating?"

She nodded, hugging herself tighter, trying to compress herself into a more solid mass. But she was weak.

Merlyn came closer, his legs now inches from her. "Look at me, Felicity. Look me in the eye and say it, so I know you're not lying."

She squeezed her eyes shut, ducked her head, her chin resting on her knees. A tense whine came from her throat. She wanted to, God knows that beige prison cell looked a lot like paradise, but something choked her throat. Fear, pride, she didn't know what.

She barely heard Merlyn's soft sigh. "Very well, then."

"No, wait!" The words escaped her before she realized she was going to say them.

He stopped. He turned slowly.

"I will," she said, lifting her tear-streaked face to look up at him. She let the words tumble out. "I'll try. I promise!"

His ice-blue eyes seemed luminous in the shadows. They sought her soul and pierced her. A moment later he said, "All right." He took a step towards her, and she shrank back. "We can give it a try. What privilege would you like returned to you first?"

She ducked her head, still shaking, still convinced that it wasn't really herself speaking. She should try to ask for whatever would make escape or rescue easier. But her mind was blank. She couldn't think any more. She licked her dry, cracked lips. What did her body want? "B... bath," she croaked. "Bathroom."

There was another pause, and she feared he would deny her. But then, "All right," he said mildly. "It will take a while to set up. When the guards come for you, don't give them any trouble."

"I won't," she promised.

He turned to leave. "It will just be a couple of hours."

"Thank you," she blurted. Tears of relief blurred her vision. "Thank you," she sobbed. He was going to allow her to feel human again. A tiny part of her mind wondered why she was thanking him for that, when he'd been the one who'd taken that away from her in the first place.

The rest of her, however, had ceased to care.

===_X_===


	16. Lines and Angles

**Lines and Angles**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

Can't think of a title for this segment. I picture like a triangle of intersecting lines... Anyway, Oliver, Diggle, Merlyn; one happy family. :X

* * *

**Lines and Angles**

===#===

_(Verdant Basement)_

Malcolm called Oliver and asked to come over to pick up Felicity's tablet computer. He hadn't gone over to the basement lair since Mr. Diggle had been released; he'd given them a few days to settle back into their routine. He expected Oliver would return to sparring with his original partner, and thus Malcolm would no longer be needed. He felt a bit hollow at that thought. He longed for a partner, someone he could really trust. Money only bought so much loyalty. If only Tommy... well. There was no point going down that road again.

Maybe someday Tommy would come around. It was becoming easier to talk with him. Malcolm found that Tommy was more receptive when he stopped trying to be a father and was just himself. Tommy was a grown man, now. He didn't need a father. To be brutally honest, that's what Malcolm had taught him when he was young.

He took a breath and shelved those thoughts as he crossed the wide dance floor of the empty club. John Diggle might well be here, Oliver's bodyguard and the Vigilante's partner. Malcolm expected the man wouldn't be pleased to see him. Well, he was a soldier. He ought to know better than to let personal animosity interfere with the job. As for Malcolm, he was used to walking into boardrooms full of people who would like nothing better than to stick a knife in his back.

All big business leaders generated hatred at all levels of society. Just look at Bill Gates. It's a wonder the man didn't keel over from sheer negative karma. Malcolm had his share of enemies. That's why he had bodyguards and wore kevlar whenever he made a public appearance. It paid to be paranoid.

He punched in the keycode at the door and went down the stairs. He was right, Oliver and John were arguing about something. Malcolm called Oliver's name; he knew the boy hated people sneaking up on him.

The two men turned. Malcolm got to the bottom of the steps. "Mr. Diggle," he said, offering the man his hand. "Welcome back."

If looks could impale, Malcolm would be seeing two spears sticking out if his chest about now. After a brief hesitation, John Diggle smiled a tight, unfriendly smile and gripped Malcolm's hand in a crushing grip. So childish. Malcolm didn't reciprocate; it was a simple trick to shift the alignment of bones in his hand so the grip didn't hurt. He only smiled in bland amusement as Diggle's subtle aggression had no effect whatsoever.

Looking into his eyes, Merlyn could see this pissed the man off to no end.

Diggle released his hand and Malcolm dismissed him from his mind. He was a soldier, after all, and soldiers did what their commanders told them. Oliver was watching the exchange silently.

"Do you have Felicity's tablet?" Malcolm asked him.

"Yes." The young man made no move to hand it over. "I want to see her."

"We've been through this. If you follow procedure-"

"No; I want to visit her. I don't care what it takes- blindfold me, drug me, knock me out; I don't care- but I want to see her for myself."

"That's not practical."

"Then I want another phone call."

"I can arrange that." Malcolm kept his voice level, calm, to offset Oliver's agitation. "But it will take some time."

"Don't give me this bullshit! Tell me what you're doing to her!" Every line of his body was drawn tight. He pressed his teeth down on his lower lip, he clenched his fists. He stood inside Malcolm's personal space, within striking distance, glaring straight at him.

Malcolm didn't back up. If Oliver struck at him now, he'd only be slowed by the tension in his muscles. He was likely only posturing in front of his friend. "What did you tell her the last time you talked to her?"

Oliver blinked, caught off balance by the change in direction.

"Did you tell her to try to escape?"

"No! I told her..." Now his eyes dropped, his aggression drained. "I told her to cooperate. To just... not do anything."

"Well," Malcolm said dryly, "She didn't listen to you. She wants to go to the police."

"Let me talk to her again; let me explain."

"No, Oliver. She won't listen to you. She doesn't care if you go to jail along with me. She's... quite righteous."

Oliver seemed defeated at the moment, but then Diggle spoke up. "If she weren't being held prisoner, she'd be a lot more reasonable. Let her go. Oliver and I can guarantee she won't go to the police."

"And how are you going to do that?" Malcolm asked, turning so he could face both men. "You're going to sit on her? Lock her up and keep tabs on her?"

"I'm sure that won't be necessary," Oliver said.

"Well, I'm not," Malcolm retorted.

"You can't hold her indefinitely," said Diggle.

"I'm holding her until I am sure she is willing to see reason and not endanger us all." Diggle glared at him. He glared right back. "Are you going to let me take her tablet to her?" he asked Oliver. The young man swore underbreath and handed it over.

Malcolm took it. "Is there a tracer on it?"

"No," Oliver said.

"You know I'm going to have this checked. If I find anything-"

"It's clean," Diggle said sourly. He shot a look at Oliver, who narrowed his eyes.

Malcolm looked at him. "Need I remind you, if anyone- even some uninvolved third party- tries to find Felicity or the Markov Device, then Ms. Smoak will suffer the consequences."

"Don't you hurt her!" Oliver snarled.

"Don't you _make_ me hurt her." Malcolm shot a baleful glance at Diggle before fixing Oliver's gaze again. "Make sure your man knows what's at stake, here." He tucked the tablet under his arm and left.

===#===

The two men watched Merlyn leave.

"Oliver, this deal sucks," Diggle said.

"We're not doing anything to jeopardize Felicity," Oliver told him. "Don't even think about crossing Merlyn. Once she's safe... We'll see."

===_X_===

* * *

_End Notes:_

_...it was a simple trick to shift the alignment of bones in his hand so the grip didn't hurt._

- yes, i do know how to do this. no, i'm not telling.


	17. Tangled Knots

**Tangled Knots**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: yes

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: mentioned briefly

Other: references to alcohol and drug use

_Author's Note:_

Laurel is convinced she knows all she needs to know about Oliver. Tommy, however, thinks differently.

I didn't mean for the second part to run on as long as it did. But, I couldn't leave those unanswered questions lying around... Also keep in mind, I have NO idea how corporate America works or what they do all day. I'm just Making Up Crap(tm).

* * *

**Tangled Knots**

===#===

_CNRI Offices_

Tommy wended his way through the bustle of the law office as everybody scrambled to try to beat the five-o-clock rush. He found Laurel at her desk, sorting and stacking folders. "Can I talk to you?"

She looked up, a momentary flash of surprise on her face. "Tommy." She hadn't expected to see him there. She ducked her head quickly back to her work. "About what?"

"It's about Oliver. About... you and me."

Her expression softened. He could see in her eyes the care and love she had for him. Tinged with sorrow and regret. "I'm sorry, Tommy. I know this isn't fair to you at all." His heart leapt to know she cared enough to realize how he must feel. Her next words stabbed like a knife. "But it was you who left me."

"And that was the biggest mistake of my life." He stepped closer as she tried to shut him out again, fussing with those damned papers. He couldn't say what he had to say, not with all these people around. "Can't you spare me a few minutes of your time? Can we go somewhere quiet, so we can talk?"

She relented and took him to one of the interview rooms. She closed the door, cutting off the office hubbub. Tommy had carefully prepared what he was going to say, but she beat him to the punch.

"I know you've always had a thing for me-"

"A '_thing_'?"

"And your friendship with Oliver kept you from acting on it. Then I know things were bad between me and Oliver for a time, but you were right, Tommy." She paced, unable to meet his eyes. "Despite everything, my heart never stopped longing for him. I can't explain it, and I _am_ sorry, but I can't control my heart." Now she did face him, and her eyes were dark with sorrow. "You're a great guy. You've really grown these past few months, and I'm grateful for the time we shared together. You also know, things can't continue that way."

He grabbed ahold of himself. He had to make her see the truth. "Listen to me, Laurel. Oliver is not the man you think he is. He's changed."

"Of course he's changed. He's been through a lot." She folded her arms. "No one could go through what he's suffered and remain unscathed."

"No, you don't understand. You don't know him like I do," he insisted.

She quirked a brow. "I suppose that's true, you two being guys and all. I'm sure he tells you different things. But you don't know him like I do, either."

Tommy raked his hand through his hair, turning a small circle in frustration. "He hasn't told you the truth, has he?"

"He wouldn't lie to me."

"Oh come _on_, Laurel! He's been lying since he got back!"

"Okay, yes; you're right." She unfolded her arms and pressed down with her hands, as if fending off his words. "He's been through Hell, Tommy. I understand why he doesn't want to talk about it. He'll tell me in his own time. Or maybe never. But there's nothing you can say that can make me stop loving him."

_He's a murderer._ The words were on the tip of his tongue. But he couldn't say them. He couldn't tell Laurel that her long lost boyfriend was a vigilante, a stone cold killer. She wouldn't listen! He'd sound like some jealous twat, world's biggest jerk trying a desperate gambit to get his girl back.

_I just want to know: when were you planning on telling me?_ he'd asked Oliver.

_Never._

That was it, then. He'd hide it from Laurel, from his mother, his sister, everyone. Until he got killed, or caught, or something forced his hand, like Tommy's dad getting shot.

His thoughts were interrupted by a quick tap on the door. It opened, and Oliver poked his head in. "Laurel? Jo said you were in-" His eyes met Tommy's.

Molten rage flooded Tommy's veins. That murderer. That liar. He clenched his teeth, his jaw thrust forward.

===#===

Oliver froze. He saw Tommy's anger leveled at him, but not before he saw the raw pain in the young man's eyes. _Give Tommy my love._ The echo of Rebecca's voice rang loud in his head. Oliver's limbs locked; the voice was so strong, he felt Rebecca's ghost behind him, pleading. _Give Tommy my love._

At once he realized Malcolm must have failed his wife again. Not only did he not save her, but he hadn't carried out her final wish of letting Tommy know how much she'd loved her son.

He often heard Rebecca's voice in his head. At odd, quiet moments, or sometimes hidden in the undercurrent of the crowd at the club. He heard it most often in his dreams. Sometimes, Rebecca called his name instead of Malcolm's. And he was held immobile, powerless to help. Sometimes, it wasn't Rebecca's voice, but Laurel's. She'd cry and gasp for help, and he would clutch the phone and race through the dark streets crowded with faceless strangers. No matter how far he ran, no matter how fast, he couldn't find her. Her voice just faded further and further away, sounding so tiny on the phone.

He'd wake, shivering in a cold sweat, sobbing quietly.

"Oliver?" Laurel shook his arm.

He blinked, came back to reality.

"Are you all right?" she asked, her face creased with concern.

"Yeah," he lied with practiced ease. "Sorry. I just zoned a minute." He padded the lie with a practiced smile. Then he looked over at Tommy. "What are you doing here?" he blurted without thinking. His tone was neutral, curious, but Tommy would probably take it the wrong way.

"Apparently," Tommy said, his narrowed eyes flicking between the two, "wasting my breath." He brushed out past them.

Oliver winced.

"Don't mind him," Laurel said. "He's just jealous."

"He has every right to be," Oliver admitted morosely.

"Well, I sympathize, but he needs to grow up and realize he can't always get his way." She sighed in release of tension and emotion. She draped her arms around his neck and tugged him down for a kiss. "And what," she said, breaking it slowly, "are you doing here?"

"I thought I'd come by and see if you'd like to go out to dinner with me." He followed her back to her desk.

"Oliver, that's every night this week. You know I have work to do at home, and I need to stop slacking off."

"I know... but can I at least take you home? Get you some take out? I promise not to distract you from your paperwork."

He tried not to let his nightmares make him paranoid. He made a strong, conscious effort to put aside those fears. But the facts were staring him in the face. Laurel worked in the Glades, helping people, just like Rebecca had. And she could be leaving work, walking to her car, and be accosted by a mugger, a junkie, someone with a gun and no conscience, and just like that, it would be all over.

"You're always a distraction," she said with a playful smile and another kiss to his cheek. She shouldered her purse, hefted an armload of files, and turned to leave. God, didn't she know how vulnerable that left her? Her father was a police officer, he should've taught her better. "I do have my own car, you know."

He followed her doggedly. He wondered how she would react if he suggested she call him when she was getting ready to leave the office. Would that seem overbearing? He didn't need to always come get her, but he could be on the lookout without her knowing. Ideally, he'd finally take her up on that offer of moving in with her. But he couldn't do that now; that would be painting a big red archery target on her back.

If Tommy hadn't already told his father everything.

===#===

_Merlyn Global Office Building_

Malcolm typed a few notes into his laptop and hit 'Save.' He was pleased with the progress he'd made with the Beijing Conglomerate. It had always been difficult to break into the Chinese markets, but since the death of Frank Chen, Sanchen Enterprises hadn't been able to cover all the openings. Malcolm didn't feel bad about taking advantage of Sanchen's instability. Frank had been the worst sort of traitor, pretending to be a friend and ally. God, he'd known Frank over twelve years! The man had been his closest friend besides Robert and Moira.

His only concern was Frank's wife and daughter. Moira had been right: they weren't part of Frank's treachery, and they didn't deserve to be punished. He'd been angry- furious- and had overreacted. Thank God for Moira's calming influence. She always brought him perspective and balance.

Still, he had to trust that Frank's insurance and estate were sufficient to sustain his family in his absence.

Malcolm looked up as the conference room door swung open. Tommy strode in and made a beeline for the sideboard, where a decanter for Merlyn guests stood. He snatched the crystal stopper off and tossed it carelessly aside, then splashed a generous helping into a tumbler.

"Tommy?" Malcolm called gently. "What's wrong?"

"It's over, Dad," he said without looking up. "Me and Laurel? We're finished." He tossed down the drink and grimaced. The Merlot on service today didn't agree with him, so he started rummaging in the drink cabinet.

"I'm sorry, Son," Malcolm said, standing and moving closer. He watched Tommy fill another tumbler with scotch, and wanted to tell him that wasn't the answer. But he'd long ago given up the right to tell his son what to do. Instead, he said, "Would it help if I brought out the wisdom of maturity and told you this will all pass over, and after a while you'll feel better?"

"No; save it."

Malcolm had to shrug wryly. When he was young, he hadn't wanted to hear it either. "What happened?" he asked, in case Tommy needed to talk about it. He was open to it, but not sure his son was.

Tommy slammed part of the scotch and made a face. "It's Oliver," he growled. "She's with him." Pained misery tinged his every syllable.

"Oliver?" This was more complicated. "Is that why you two had a falling out?" Over a woman? Oliver had said it was about the vigilante business.

"Part of it," Tommy admitted.

"Can you win her back?"

Tommy finished the rest of his drink in a gulp. "I did everything I could. After everything I've done for her? And everything he's done to her? She just goes right for the Bad Boy! Women! Honestly!" He sloshed more scotch into his glass. "If only she knew what he's really like."

"What do you mean?" Malcolm probed cautiously.

Tommy just shook his head and downed more of the liquor.

Malcolm bit his lip. If only Tommy would trust him enough to reveal Oliver's secret, he could try to make his son see the good that Oliver was doing. If Tommy's opinion turned around, Malcolm could reveal his own secrets, about his work with Oliver, about the Undertaking.

_Tommy hates me... He thinks I'm a murderer._

_Oliver, you're not a murderer._

_Well, I'm a killer. So it's not that far off._

But Tommy _could_ understand, could accept it. Malcolm had shot the Chinese mafia thug that had pulled a gun on them. Tommy had been shocked, but surely he could see the necessity of it. He had killed, and Tommy was still speaking to him. Perhaps... But now with this romantic competition between Oliver and Tommy, things just got more and more complicated.

And Tommy- whatever animosity he had for Oliver didn't diminish his loyalty. He avoided discussing Oliver's clandestine activities. "He was screwing her _sister_, for Christ's sake! He got her killed! How can she just ignore that?" He drank down half his glass. "I wish he had died on that damned island."

"You don't mean that. He's been your friend since... forever."

"He's changed. He's a different man."

"He's been through a terrible ordeal."

"So? Now what? Life owes him, and he gets everything dropped right in his lap?" Tommy snarled.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Yes, he's had it tough; I get that! I can't complain, because I wasn't shipwrecked, or starving, or lost? I have feelings too! And don't I deserve happiness?"

"Yes, but-"

"Jesus, Dad!" Tommy slammed the glass down, spilling a finger of scotch on the sideboard. "You're supposed to be on my side!" His eyes flared. "You sound like you'd rather have him for your son. You know, you suck at being a father! No- don't talk to me," he spit when Malcolm tried to say something. He stormed out of the conference room.

Malcolm flinched back, stung by his son's words. It was no less than he deserved. "Tommy!" He put himself in motion, chasing Tommy out into the hall. "Tommy, wait!"

The younger Merlyn got to the private elevator ahead of his father and didn't wait for him to catch up. Malcolm pulled his smartphone out of his pocket and keyed the emergency elevator lock. Tommy forbore punching the controls, but he looked as if he really wanted to. Malcolm stepped into the car and turned around, released the doors. They slid shut and the elevator began its decent.

"Tommy, I'm sorry." Malcolm turned to his son, who refused to acknowledge him. "I am sorry. Please, look at me."

Tommy only folded his arms, his shoulders hunched forward, and stared sullenly at the elevator door.

"Look," Malcolm tried again. "I know what it's like to lose the woman you love." He swallowed dryly and went on. "And I know what it's like to lose your best friend. I... you'll probably tell me I'm being corny again, but you are my son, and I don't want to see you suffer the same pain as I have."

That was all he had to say. Tommy remained stone-faced. If he were a proper father, he'd know what to do, what to say. He wished he could give up all those years of searching, of training, of looking for answers, to go back in time and be there for his boy, so he could just talk to his son.

But he couldn't. Malcolm Merlyn, the grand business magnate, was helpless to do anything. All those years of guilt and mistakes bore down on his shoulders, nearly paralyzing him with their weight. He had to try to bridge that chasm. If he didn't, Tommy might realize how useless he was and walk away from him forever.

He stepped closer to Tommy, slowly. Hesitantly, fearing another outburst or violent rejection, he reached out. He laid his hand on Tommy's shoulder. A dark cloud crossed Tommy's face, and Malcolm steeled himself, but refused to let go.

Then a tear rolled down Tommy's cheek, and his face crumpled in misery.

Malcolm squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know it hurts, and it kills me that I can't do anything to help."

"I was just so sure that she was the one, you know?" His voice as so tiny and strangled. "She was the only woman I ever wanted to wake up next to. Even with no makeup and bed-head, she was still beautiful to me." He sniffed and put his hands over his face. "I could have been happy living with her the rest of my life."

Malcolm squeezed his shoulder again, trying uselessly to will the pain away. "Come home to the mansion tonight," he said. Tommy started to shake his head. "I know you want to get plastered; I won't stop you. But at least you won't have to worry about getting home." He had a sudden terrible vision of Tommy wrecking his car. As miserable as he was, it might not be entirely by accident.

The elevator came smoothly to a stop on the ground floor. Tommy pulled away slightly to rub at his face and try to erase the signs he'd been crying. Malcolm reluctantly let go. He had another terrible insight into the mind of a young jilted man. Warning Tommy against it would just cause another rebellious conflict. So he said, "Look, if you want to get laid-"

"No!" Of course, he would deny it. "I just want to be alone." He made to step out of the elevator, but Malcolm stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Tommy, just promise me one thing. Promise me you won't drive." He shook Tommy to make the young man look into his eyes, to see how desperately serious he was. "I'll have Eric drive you."

"No, Dad," Tommy said finally, pulling his arm free.

"Tommy-" His voice rose as the vague premonition grew stronger, driving his worry towards panic.

"I'll take a cab," Tommy snapped. "I promise. Okay?"

Malcolm backed down. "All right."

===#===

Malcolm watched Tommy walk away, and he didn't know what to do. He could follow Tommy. In a few hours, it would be dark, and he could lurk on the rooftops and fire escapes, watching over Tommy like some costumed hero from the movies. If Tommy passed out in an alley, or was accosted by predators taking advantage of his inebriated state, Malcolm could step in and save him.

He realized the flaw in this plan right away. He'd made Tommy promise to take a cab. There were thousands of taxicabs all over the city- it would be nearly impossible to figure out which one Tommy got in, and to trace its route through the crowded streets.

If Tommy had taken his own car, at least then Malcolm could have used his GPS tracker to keep tabs on him. The tracker was illegal, of course, but... 'rich boys and their toys' and all. What good would that do, anyway? He would follow and watch Tommy wreck his car? Maybe then he could render first aid, if it wasn't instantly fatal.

Malcolm worked himself into a frenzy of worry, thinking about all the things that could go wrong, of all the ways Tommy could end up hurt or killed. And in the back of his mind was the nagging reminder that he'd left his laptop unsecured when he'd gone chasing after Tommy. It was in a relatively safe area, but it made quite a tempting target. Even a security guard might try to see what was on it, get an idea what stocks to pick up before Merlyn Global acquired another holding and made the shares skyrocket.

He didn't realize he was clenching his fist until his fingernails dug into the skin of his palm. He opened his hands and took a deep breath. Then he turned and walked to the security monitoring station.

"-and then in the final q- Mr. Merlyn!" The two men in the monitoring room sprang to rigid attention. The guards had been on edge since the security breach, waiting for the axe to fall. Three of them had been reprimanded, but no one had been fired. Malcolm had reviewed the incidents and couldn't really fault any of their actions. The Vigilante's team had just been too devious. Fortunately, his head computer technician was ex-government and even more paranoid than he was. She'd detected the trojan before the nightly backup, and had raised holy hell about it.

"Show me the lobby footage for the past ten minutes," Malcolm requested.

"Yes, sir." Hines moved to an auxiliary monitor and brought up the playback.

Cole, the man who'd been drugged the night of the infiltration, broke out in a sweat. Malcolm said to him, "Can you bring up the executive garage on this monitor?"

"Y-yes, sir. Rewind?"

"About five minutes."

"Yes, sir."

Hines said, "Is there a problem, sir?" He was tensed and reflexively gripping his gun, prepared to charge out into the fray.

"No," Malcolm assured him. "I just need to check something." He didn't elaborate. What was the point of being one of those 'rich bastards who can do whatever they want without regard to anyone else' if he didn't get to abuse that power once in a while? It made his job easier, especially his clandestine job, when people who worked for him got used to not asking questions and not being told every last thing.

Malcolm watched Tommy cross the lobby and exit out the front doors. That didn't preclude him from walking around the building to get his car, if he'd changed his mind. "Switch to the front exterior," he told Hines. "Same timestamp."

It took the guard a moment to get the proper feed and rewind it. When it played out, Tommy went to the curb, and after a minute, flagged down a taxi. He got in the cab, and it drove off into the river of traffic.

Malcolm's fear eased a little. "Thank you," he told the guards, then he went to return to the conference room, leaving the two men wondering what that had been about.

Malcolm fidgeted as the private elevator rose once more. He just couldn't let go of the idea of trailing Tommy, of watching over him, despite his assessment that it wasn't practical. Perhaps he could ask Oliver to help. He would know Tommy's favorite bars and hangouts, wouldn't he? He could help shadow Tommy. Of course, the irony of Oliver being the instrument of Tommy's despair wasn't lost on Malcolm.

He gathered up his laptop and brought it to his office. Just because Tommy hated Oliver, it didn't mean that Oliver felt the same way. Still, Malcolm wasn't entirely comfortable asking the Vigilante to help with a family matter. And if Tommy noticed Oliver following him, there would be a messy confrontation.

_You can't protect your loved-ones all the time._

Malcolm turned, and the photo of his family sitting on the shelf caught his eye. Rebecca was looking at him. He walked over and touched the frame, trying to regain a semblance of his lost connection. "I can't go through that again," he whispered.

He didn't often hear her voice any more, except when she cried for help. What was it she had once said? _You teach your children well, in more than words- you set a good example. Then you trust them to do the right thing when they go off on their own._

He grimaced and turned away. What had he done with Tommy? Tommy and his drunken brushes with the law, his stint with drugs, the girl he got pregnant in high school. "You weren't there to help me. I..." _You suck as a father._ He lowered his head. "What can I do?"

_You can't protect the ones you love all the time. You have to trust him._

He didn't like it, but that much was staring him in the face. He packed the laptop into its carrying case and took it home.

He didn't really get any work done. He didn't bother going to bed, but dozed on the chair in front of the TV, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for that call from the police... from the hospital...

===#===

They never called.

Malcolm dragged himself to work the next morning; a shower, a shave, a fresh suit putting on the veneer of normalcy. He called Tommy's cell when he got to the office and found his son wasn't there. No answer.

He called again later, allowing extra time for sleeping off a hangover. It went to voice mail again, so this time he left a message. "Tommy, where are you? Call me."

The morning meetings dragged on. Normally, Malcolm enjoyed the long game, entertaining bids and counter-offers, playing out the target acquisition until they felt they were getting a fabulous deal. It kept the personnel of the holding companies happy and cooperative with their new owner. But today he was not in the mood for cat-and-mouse; it was more like hawk-and-hare. Once the little rodent was drawn out, he swooped in with a bottom-line ultimatum and crushed resistance in his talons.

He cut three morning meetings short, so he had his driver take him to Tommy's new apartment before lunch. He knocked at the door and waited. If Tommy wasn't home... Malcolm's stomach took a nosedive. He'd have to start calling the local hospitals and see if any unidentified young men had been brought in last night, or early this morning. His nails were digging into his palm again. He unclenched his fist, then closed it and banged on the door, harder than he'd meant to.

This time he was rewarded with a muffled grumbling from somewhere inside. There was a crash, a bang, and a curse, and then the door was pulled open. Tommy blinked blearily at him. "What?"

Malcolm was so relieved to see him- disheveled and groggy, eyes bloodshot and baggy, but very much alive- he almost laughed. "If you can't make it to work, it's traditional to call in sick."

Tommy's face twisted in disgust. "Is that all you care about? The job? Fuck off, Dad!"

He flung the door shut, but Malcolm reached out and caught it. "I didn't mean it like that," he apologized as he pushed his way in. Dammit, why was he always saying the wrong thing? "I've been worried about you."

"Why bother?" the younger Merlyn muttered. He ignored his father's presence as he stepped over a fallen end table and retrieved a bottle on the cabinet.

"You're my son," Malcolm said.

"The screw-up, the big joke," Tommy replied bitterly. "I know what you think of me."

"You've come a long way since that. You've proven to everyone- including yourself- what you are capable of."

"Screwing up my life." Tommy swung around, spied a glass on the coffee table, and went to get it. It wasn't clean, but he poured out the dregs of the bottle into it, picked it up and tipped it down his throat. Malcolm watched helplessly. Tommy peeled his lips back in a grimace, and shook the bottle over the glass, even though he knew it was empty. He growled something unintelligible, then looked over at his father. "Does this bother you?" he asked, gesturing confrontationally with the glass.

Malcolm wasn't sure how he should respond, if it were another trap where he'd say the wrong thing again. He decided there was no hope for it, so he told the truth. "Yes."

"So?" Belligerence glittered in his eyes.

Malcolm spread his hands. "I know I don't have any right to tell you what you should do."

"That's right." Tommy tipped the bottle over the glass again, giving it another snarl when it still refused to produce any more liquor. He tossed it onto the couch, heedless of whether it dripped on the furniture or not. "Well, I'm calling in sick. All this week. Hell, all this month."

"I don't think that's a good idea, Son," Malcolm said carefully.

"Oh what difference does it make? You don't need me!" He set the glass down on the coffee table with a loud _clack_. "Your precious job can get along fine without me."

"It's not about the job." Malcolm put out a hand to forestall any argument. "If you sit here doing nothing all day... you'll never pull yourself out of this. You need something that will get you out of bed in the morning. Force you to go out. Something to take your mind off your loss."

"Throw myself into my work now that I don't have a personal life?"

"If you don't get out of the house, you won't have much opportunity to rebuild that, either." Malcolm hoped this attempt at humor wouldn't fall flat. Tommy gave an acerbic huff. "Look, take the rest of today off. But, please, try to come in tomorrow."

"Yeah, all right."

Tommy slouched, the fight leeched from him. He was such a picture of misery, Malcolm wanted to say something else, something encouraging... helpful. He didn't know what, though, so he just turned away awkwardly.

"Dad."

He looked back.

Tommy didn't meet his eyes, he just kept staring at the floor. "Sorry about..." He waved a hand in a vague gesture.

"It's all right." Malcolm left and returned to work, feeling as if he'd regained some equilibrium. At least Tommy didn't hate him any more than usual. He'd made some progress, hadn't he?

Malcolm rubbed his face as his chauffeur took him through the streets of the city. Only time could heal Tommy's wounds. As his father, Malcolm could sympathize, but he had to be firm as well. As for right now, he had other business to attend to.

===_X_===


	18. More Privileges

**More Privileges**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: none

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

Malcolm Merlyn is the nicest guy in the world. When he gets what he wants.

* * *

**More Privileges**

===#===

_A private holding facility_

Felicity pulled out the chair and set it facing the door in anticipation of Mr. Merlyn's arrival. _Not_ because she was trained to do that, mind you. She just wanted to make a good impression. Today it would be decided if she would get computer privileges- and what, if any, internet access. She straightened her glasses and combed her fingers through her hair as she paced.

When the intercom buzzed and Mr. Merlyn asked to come in, she darted to the chair and sat with her hands folded in her lap. "Please do," she said brightly.

The multiple heavy bolts were unlocked and drawn, then the door opened, and the impeccably-attired businessman stepped in. He was wearing light grey today, and his tie was accented with an ice blue that really set off his eyes. Felicity dropped her gaze to the floor, because she really shouldn't be thinking along those lines. But she had noticed the briefcase he held. She stifled a flash of excitement.

"How are you today, Felicity?" he asked lightly as he went to the desk and set the briefcase down on it.

"Good. I'm good." She nodded. "I've finally given up on double-tapping the cards and expecting them to jump into place."

He chuckled and faced her, leaning back on the desk. "Oliver and Mr. Diggle have gotten back into their routine. Oliver has made the rounds on a few slum lords he's been encouraging to be more lenient with their rent policies." She nodded again, and he tipped his head. "But I suppose you want to skip the chit-chat and get to the goodies." He patted the briefcase.

She felt her cheeks warm. He chuckled again, and flipped the case open. "Good news," he said, pulling out her tablet. She clung to the sides of the chair to keep from leaping out and grabbing it. He set it gently on the desk. "It needs to charge, so you won't have it 24 hours a day. You'll have a restricted gateway access to the wireless router."

Internet! Felicity refrained from pumping her fist and yelling 'Yes!' There were still caveats, she was sure.

"We've determined that the games you asked for will be fine, they don't seem to have full chat functions. But I'm afraid the forums will have to be blocked, and your email, too. Just too wide open, there," he said apologetically. She nodded; that was reasonable. "You can access your Netflix account, though. That should help."

"I can probably get through their entire streaming library," she said, trying to make it into a joke. It didn't quite come out that way. Mr. Merlyn pursed his lips. "I didn't mean it like that," she assured him. "What about that fan fiction site? Just for reading?"

He shook his head. "That appears to have a full private messaging system, so no, I'm afraid that's out."

"Oh. Right." She picked nervously at her nails, which were already torn to the quick. She didn't want him to think she was angling for any privileges that could help her escape or let her contact her friends. "You know, Netflix has a rating and review system," she said. Just in the interest of full disclosure.

"Hrm," he said. "Can you promise me you won't write a bunch of reviews saying 'Help, I'm a prisoner'?"

She remembered to look up into his eyes. "I promise. Besides, if I did, they'd probably block my account for spamming."

"We can't have that," he said with another chuckle.

"No, definitely not." Felicity smiled a little, relieved that she'd put him back into a good mood.

He reached into the briefcase again. "I know you're quite anxious to get your email." He pulled out a sheaf of papers. "So I had these printed out. Don't worry," he said, holding up a hand; "I didn't read any of them. There might be some spam."

"You printed emails? That's... like... heresy." He quirked a brow at her, so she explained. "Email is like the opposite of paper. It's supposed to save paper."

"Sorry," he said with a lopsided grin that meant he wasn't, really. He laid the papers on the corner of the desk. "You can't answer them this way, but at least you'll have the messages people have been sending you."

"Thank you," she said. Well, half a conversation was better than none?

"There's something else I'd like to ask of you."

"Oh?" Dread settled in her stomach.

"It's sort of a job, actually."

"Like that offer of working in your IT department?"

He shook his head. "This is more like freelance contract work." He pulled some more papers from the briefcase. "I'd like to get this typed up. If you can read my handwriting," he added with chagrin.

She frowned and held a hand out for it. He gave her the pages, and she looked them over. "What is this?"

"It's part of an old journal of mine, where I detailed some of the undertakings of the project to make Starling City a better place. Oliver was interested in learning more about our group's work."

Felicity was interested, too. He'd just handed her a pile of incriminating evidence. "Some of it seems to be missing?" The pages were lined, but not looseleaf or spiral-bound. They appeared to have been cut from a book.

"I had also written some personal things in my journal," he explained.

"I can type this in for you," she said. "Do you want Word or PDF or-?"

"Actually, no," he firmly cut her off. "Digital files have a way of propagating far too easily. I just want one hard copy. I'll get you a typewriter."

She blinked. "Wow. I think I've seen one of those in a museum."

"If you don't mind murdering more trees?" he prompted.

"If this is a job, I'm getting paid, right?"

"Of course."

"I charge fifty dollars an hour," she said. With a straight face, too. "Oh, and since I'm here 24-7?" He was nodding, but she wasn't done yet. "Don't forget time and a half for overtime. Double-time on holidays."

"Do you prefer cash, or check? Or perhaps direct deposit into your bank account, either locally or in the Caymen Islands?"

She should have known she couldn't top him when it came to money. "Check will be fine. And weekly."

"Done," he said agreeably. He straightened and offered his hand. Felicity took it automatically. His grip was firm and warm. He tugged slightly and she got to her feet. "The typewriter will be delivered a bit later," he told her. "Enjoy your computer."

"I will, thank you." She found it easier to smile when things were so civilized.

===#===

After he'd left, she paged through her printed (shudder) emails. Just a lot of small talk from different 'net acquaintances. It was rather depressing, actually, when she couldn't reply. She picked up a pen and made some notes in the margins. That was slightly better.

Then she found one from Oliver. She flipped through and pulled out all the ones with his name in the header. There were a few, mostly innocuous, though some had cryptic references to his moonlighting job. One stood out, because it was about a party he was going to hold at the club. He wanted to run a trivia contest of all things, and asked her to verify the answers. As if she had access to Google.

She was bored, and couldn't resist a mental challenge, so she chewed on the pen as she read the questions:

Scar's big number.

How to activate Ruby Slippers.

A day for Ruby slippers.

Which element Bruce Willis needs.

Time on the Doomsday Clock.

She started scribbling down answers, but quickly stopped when she realized what she was writing. 'Be prepared; there's no place like home...' They was instructions on her rescue. Oliver was coming to get her! She grabbed the tablet and turned it on. Finally, she could see what day it was. The computer clock and calendar informed her it was Thursday, and yes... next Tuesday was the fifth.

Her heart started thumping. _Get ahold of yourself, Felicity,_ she thought; _Remember, you're on camera, here._ She took a calming breath and forced herself to go through the rest of the inane trivia questions.

Now all she had to do was remain calm and cool, a good little model prisoner, for four more days. Then she would be going home!

Unless... A horrible thought struck her. What if Oliver failed?

_That's nonsense,_ she argued. _When have you known him to fail?_

_When that Dark Archer is around,_ she shot back.

_Oliver knows he's here. He'll be prepared,_ she assured herself.

_What about the deal? One screw-up, and you are the hostage who's going to get it. Merlyn's going to unleash that black beast on you, and you know he'll do it!_

_If Oliver doesn't rescue me, how will I ever get out of here?_

Her questions went back and forth for hours, but she had fewer and fewer answers.

===_X_===


	19. Above All Else, Part 1

**Above All Else, Part 1**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure

Language: none

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

This mission will take up the next few chapters.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. It's just that it takes place in the real world, so I have to have real world names. They're all made up; I totally do not know anyone by any of these names.

That said, this plot was inspired by various real life events. Unfortunately.

* * *

**Above All Else, Part 1**

===#===

_Verdant Basement_

Diggle went down the stairs, a newspaper folded in his hand. "Oliver, have you heard about the Thompson kidnapping?"

The young man turned his chair away from the computer station. "Hard to miss it. It's all over the news channels." He gestured at the local network news feed on the monitor, where the anchorwoman was reiterating the story.

"_Crystal Thompson, age seven, was abducted from her home last night. Her parents, Leonard and Brenda Thompson, are still waiting for contact from the kidnappers. As of this time, no ransom demands have been received._"

The shot cut to a pre-recorded clip of the distraught parents sitting in their living room. Tears gleamed silver on Brenda Thompson's dark skin. "_Please don't hurt my baby. She's the most precious thing I have!_" She put her hands over her face.

Her husband Leonard put an arm around her shoulders as she sobbed. His face was twisted in misery, but he kept his voice controlled. "_We don't have much, but we'll do what we can. Just bring back our daughter. We won't press charges; she's all that matters._"

The Thompsons weren't particularly rich, at least not compared to the folks Diggle worked for nowadays. They were comfortably upper-middle class. He worked in a large downtown law firm, and she at a fashionable dress boutique. The police were looking into Leonard's past cases, but Diggle doubted they would find much motive for revenge in the cut-and-dried branch of patent law.

"_There has been some speculation that the motive for this kidnapping is not money,_" the anchorwoman continued, "_but has to do with the heated rivalry at the Starling City Little Princess pageant, where Crystal Thompson was, until this tragedy, a top contender. Lorraine Waterford, director of the Little Princess pageant, issued a statement addressing this rumor._"

This clip showed a matronly woman with impeccably coiffed blonde hair, and a cool expression Diggle attributed to too much Botox. "_The Starling City Little Princess pageant builds the foundation of character into our young ladies. We foster a sense of pride and fair play. I assure you, no one here would resort to such underhanded and frankly repulsive behavior._" Diggle glanced at Oliver, wondering if the young man bought this line. He was watching the feed with quiet intensity, his grey eyes noting every detail, every nuance.

"_None of the other families participating in the pageant could be reached for comment,_" the newswoman said. "_Police are urging anyone with any information on the whereabouts of Crystal Thompson to call this hotline._" The number displayed across the bottom of the screen, superimposed over a photograph of the little girl. "_Ms. Waterford assures reporters that the pageant will continue on schedule this weekend at the Chapel Street Auditorium, with the talent portion of the competition, and next weekend with the finals._"

"She really is a beautiful child," Diggle said fondly, looking at the photograph. Crystal smiled brightly at the camera, a little girl without a care in the world. Her dark eyes shined with life. Diggle shook himself out of his reverie. "You think this is one non-List fight the Hood can step into?" he asked hopefully.

"It could be," Oliver replied hesitantly. "But what can we do that the police already haven't? This isn't money or jewels, Diggs. This is a little girl's life at stake, here."

More caution from the young archer. Diggle refrained from pointing out yet another sign of his shaken confidence. "Come on, man. I used to work extractions in Afghanistan. And you, you are a master of stealth sniping. We can have her home before those goons know what hit them."

Oliver chewed on this. He nodded. "All right. I'll see what I can find out. I can shake down the evil accountant again. He moves money for kidnappings." His expression turned sour, no doubt remembering that he'd discovered Walter's kidnapping that way. Then his mind made a leap Diggle never saw coming. "I'll call Merlyn. Maybe he knows if this matches the M.O. of anybody on the List."

"You're not going to involve him?" Diggle asked incredulously.

"He knows this city better than you or I do. My father gave me the List, but to me, it's just a bunch of names. Merlyn created the List; he knows what all those names mean." Oliver stood up and grabbed the phone. "Besides," he added, "if we're going to go in and rescue this little girl, we're going to need all the help we can get. This is too important for personal dislikes, John." Oliver gave him the grey flint glare.

"Yeah," he had to agree. "You're right."

===#===

_Downtown Starling City_

Harold Backman had bumped up his security since the Hood had first stolen his laptop. Most if it involved more bodyguards escorting Backman between home and office, and out to various 'business' meetings. Oliver circumvented all of that by simply walking into the building in broad daylight and letting himself into Backman's office while he was out to lunch.

One problem with a daylight excursion was retaining anonymity. The shadows of his hood wouldn't be deep enough. He could use his tinted motorcycle helmet, but only if he didn't need to talk with his target. Since he wanted to grill Backman, he created another option. The BMX goggles were only lightly tinted, but the mirrored surface would obscure his eyes even better. The lower face mask was a black plastic grille- dense enough to block vision, open enough to allow free air circulation.

Backman pushed into his office, nearly slamming the door into Oliver as he hid behind it. He caught it in one gloved hand. Backman staggered to his desk, awkwardly trying to carry a briefcase and a laptop bag in one arm. The other was wrapped in a cast from fingers to elbow. Fortunately, his bodyguards weren't with him.

Oliver pushed the door with the toe of his boot and slid in front of it as it closed. He thumbed the lock and, for added security, jammed a dart between the door and the jamb. "Harold Backman," he growled.

The accountant yelped and scrambled for cover behind his desk with a curse. "You! You thief! I'm calling the cops!" He reached for the phone on the desk. Oliver flung another dart; it skimmed the handset onto the floor and thunked into the top of the desk.

Backman yelped again and snatched his hand back. "Oh, big deal," he said, fronting with bravado. "I have a cell phone!" He reached for his inner jacket pocket.

Oliver cocked his arm, another dart poised to throw. "I don't think you want me to do the same trick on that one."

The accountant froze. Slowly, he raised his hands. Oliver glanced at the cast on his arm. "Having trouble with your 'dangerous friends'?" he asked.

"They're going to do a lot worse to you when they catch up with you."

"I don't think they'll have the opportunity." He stepped closer to the desk, the dart still raised threateningly, and put his left hand on the laptop case. "I just want to know about the Thompson kidnapping."

"That had nothing to do with me or anyone I know."

"You won't mind if I verify that." Oliver pulled the laptop to him and tucked it under his arm.

"Wait wait wait wait! Listen, if I tell you what I know, will you please leave that?" He glanced anxiously at the computer case.

"Then you do know something."

"No!"

Oliver turned away.

"No, but I know who does," Backman amended quickly. "And it's not on there, I swear."

Slowly, Oliver turned back. "Talk."

"Word on the street is, it was an amateur job. Strictly non-professional." Backman's eyes were fixed on his precious laptop. He licked his lips in desperation. "That's all I know- but I know where you can find out more. You heard of Crocodile's Tears?"

"No."

"It's a bar. In the Glades. South side," the accountant provided. "Hell, look it up on Google. There's a guy there, name of Murdock. Word is, he know's what's going down."

Oliver slowly placed the laptop back on the desk. He didn't remove his hand from it, though. "If I don't find what I need, I'll be back. I'll put an arrow through this screen, and you can explain that to your dangerous clients."

Backman licked his lips, a nervous sheen of sweat covering his brow. "Squeeze Murdock, I'm telling you."

"Where are your men?"

"Downstairs."

"Don't try to contact them." He shoved the laptop across the desk, into Backman's eagerly awaiting hands, then turned, unsecured the door and left.

===#===

_Verdant Basement_

Oliver was on the phone to Merlyn. "You're sure? ...All right."

Diggle checked his gun. Well, it wasn't _his_ gun, it was an unregistered backup weapon. Oliver had procured it for him, to use in clandestine missions. It wouldn't do for the police to link John Diggle's sidearm to the activities of the Vigilante.

He just hoped this fact-finding mission didn't end in a firefight. He grimaced. First it was consorting with the enemy, now it was illegal firearms. Were they turning into criminals? No, they had to use the tools of the underworld to fight the crooks. He couldn't lose sight of what they were doing.

"No," Oliver was saying into the cell. "I didn't get the laptop, I got a live lead." He paced, the phone to his ear. "Diggle and I are going to check it out. There's an after school rehearsal for the pageant today. I want you to go down there and scope out the other contestants and their parents. See who had the best motive; see who's the least broken up about the whole situation."

It made Diggle's shoulderblades itch to have Malcolm Merlyn working with them. He didn't trust the magnate. Oliver had told him what had happened the first time he and Merlyn had gone out together. It had 'evil manipulation' written all over it. If they ended up working for Merlyn instead of the other way around, Diggle was going to quit. If he'd still have that option by that time.

For now, Oliver seemed to have Merlyn under control. It had to be illusory. Merlyn still held the final card: Felicity. Oliver was convinced that once they got her back, they'd be free to pursue the Markov device and get back on course to stopping the Undertaking. Diggle worried that getting Felicity back would just be the final sign that Merlyn had won, and had them all in his pocket.

Oliver clicked off and disappeared into the dark recesses of the basement, behind some pipes. Diggle called after him, "I don't think you going down there is such a hot idea." The stubborn kid didn't reply. "I can do this recon by myself. It'll be much safer-"

"It's safer to go with backup," Oliver interrupted, flinging Diggle's own words back at him. "Besides, I'm not going as myself."

He came back around the corner and Diggle had to blink. Oliver had on some scuffed boots, baggy jeans, and a denim jacket over a black Annihilator t-shirt. The front of the shirt bulged shapelessly, making him look bigger and flabbier, but the sleeves of the jacket were torn out, showing the musculature of his arms. "Is that kevlar?" Diggle asked. The Hood didn't normally wear body armor.

"You're bringing your gun, aren't you?" He had a point. Oliver settled a baseball cap on his head. It was one of those joke ones with the long hair hanging down from it. Normally, it looked fake, but somehow Oliver managed to pull it off with his scruffy beard and the rest of his ensemble.

Diggle shook his head. "Your own mother wouldn't recognize you," he admitted. "Is your ear actually pierced?"

Oliver shrugged. "When Tommy and I were mall rats, we sort dared each other..." His wry grimace turned sour as he remembered the past with his ex-friend. Then he shook himself and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "There's plenty in the goodie bag for you to dig up a costume."

"I can't go as the suave bodyguard?"

"I don't think Melvin here would hang out with anyone like that?"

"Melvin?"

"Yeah, he got tough beating up the kids who made fun of his name."

Diggle snorted. He went over and poked through the pile of clothing. "Hey, I ain't dressing up as no gansta, yo," he deadpanned.

"Then just grab your hoodie and let's go."

"Oliver, doesn't it strike you as ironic that this case involves a beauty pageant for girls, and we're the ones playing dress-up?" He looked over.

Oliver's grey eyes, filled with absolutely no humor, looked back.

"Right. Didn't think so."

===_X_===

* * *

_End Notes:_

_...and a denim jacket over a black Annihilator t-shirt._

- in tribute to Annihilator's song "Clown Parade," about white-collar crime. So apropos to Arrow.


	20. Above All Else, Part 2

**Above All Else, Part 2**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure

Language: a bit

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. It's just that it takes place in the real world, so I have to have real world names. They're all made up; I totally do not know anyone by any of these names. Except the ones I used as political commentary.

Thoughts and opinions expressed by the characters are not necessarily those of the author. Except where they are. I am aware Malcolm Merlyn makes an erroneous conjecture; he didn't do his Google research before this chapter. You can yell at him. Yelling at me won't get you anywhere.

All thoughts and opinions of all characters are for entertainment purposes, only.

* * *

**Above All Else, Part 2**

===#===

_Chapel Street Auditorium_

Lorraine Waterford was an elegant woman of indeterminate age somewhere between forty and sixty. As befitted a director of beauty pageants, her clothes, jewelry, makeup, and hairstyle worked together to project an image of well-balanced aesthetics. She smiled and ushered Malcolm into her office. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Merlyn."

"Thank you for seeing me on such short notice." He took a seat in one of the antique leather chairs.

"It's no trouble at all." She perched on her chair behind the desk, her hands clasped lightly upon the blotter. "I'm glad you're interested in sponsoring our pageant."

"I'm not, actually," he told her bluntly. "My wife Rebecca hated beauty contests. The thought of subjecting little girls to that kind of objectification and sexualization is truly abhorrent."

Her smile wilted, but she made a brave effort to restore it. Confusion filled her eyes, though she tried to hide that as well. Perhaps she wasn't sure she heard correctly.

"But," he said into the awkward silence, "my Good Works Committee tells me that only sponsoring science fairs and other academic endeavors is actually sexist. I might even be seen as a misogynist." He spread his hands. "We can't have that."

Waterford clasped her hands more tightly and straightened her spine. She took a very controlled breath. "I'm sure you'll find our Little Princess Pageant encourages academics. Our girls write and deliver a speech about what it means to be a little princess. There is a poetry recital, and, three years ago, we introduced a spelling bee."

"Oh, a spelling bee. That's progressive." Malcolm didn't bother hiding his sarcasm.

Her knuckles went white, and her plastic smile became more of a grimace. From the venomous look in her eye, he expected she wanted nothing more than to throw him out. However, there was one huge thing in her way: the mountain of money he was ostensibly offering. "Mr. Merlyn," she grated, "I am well aware of the criticisms leveled at an event such as ours. Usually they are leveled by people who have never participated in a pageant, so I can't imagine they have the faintest idea what one is really like. I, on the other hand, have been in beauty pageants since I was twelve. Going out on stage gives a young girl poise and confidence. It is an enriching experience that builds self esteem."

He nodded thoughtfully. "You won often?"

"Yes, I did." She unclenched her hands, recalling her lifetime training, proud in her achievements.

"And what happens to the self esteem of the losers?"

Her expression darkened. "I don't mean to make any derogatory personal remarks, but I can tell you have no women in your life."

Malcolm's stomach clenched, but he cut his reaction off before it reached his extremities. He did not clench his fists.

"Girls are not like boys, Mr. Merlyn," she explained with more civility. "We are not as competitive. Women are social creatures, and the contestants all support and nurture each other. One girl's success can be enjoyed and appreciated by all. There are no 'losers.'"

"So the kidnapping of one of the girls-?"

"Had nothing to do with this competition! As I already told those press vultures, we are all one great big family. No one here would dream of harming anyone else."

He raised a hand to calm her affronted tirade. "You have to understand, I need to be careful with my company's donations. It wouldn't do for Merlyn Global's reputation to be tarnished by a scandal like this."

"If there is anything I can do to reassure you...," she suggested.

"Actually, isn't there a rehearsal today? Would I be able to watch?"

Her smile returned twofold. "Of course, Mr. Merlyn. Let me show you around."

===#===

Malcolm felt as if he were in a shampoo commercial. Waterford twittered on about the details of the various pageant competitions, from kids through teens to adults, their expenditures, their exposures, the possibility of televised events and other city-wide publicity, and everything had a spin put on it to make it look the most desirable endeavor to throw his money into. She did practically everything but wave a baited hook in his face.

As they went down the hall, she pointed out the framed photographs of prior winners, and expounded on how noteworthy each pageant was, and how much fun was had by all. He could see that the winners of the Queen of Starling City pageants were quite beautiful, smiling with perfect white teeth, eyes sparkling in competition with the gems and elaborate sequined gowns they wore. What disturbed him were the pictures of the younger girls, who looked almost exactly the same. He couldn't help but think of the photobooks that high-class cathouses used to show their line-up of call girls for prospective clients to choose from.

He shook himself and followed Waterford into the auditorium.

"I'll introduce you to the parents," she said, beckoning him down the aisle.

"Actually..." He stopped and gave her a bland smile. "I wouldn't want to make anyone nervous. Is there somewhere backstage I could watch? We wouldn't want anyone thinking I'm a talent scout or anything."

She tipped her head, her eyes narrowing cannily. "Yes, of course. Jose?" She called over an older, swarthy man in coveralls. "Jose, please show our guest backstage."

"Of course, Mrs. Waterford."

"If you'll excuse me, I have to get the rehearsal started, or we'll be here all night."

Malcolm bid her a polite good-bye and followed Jose around towards the backstage area.

The old man stopped in the hall and turned to face him. "You're not some pervert, are you?" He squinted judiciously in appraisal.

"No, I'm undercover, investigating the kidnapping."

"You're a cop?"

Malcolm realized he didn't have a badge to back up this story. "Investigative journalism, actually." Before the man could demand press ID, he asked, "Do you know if any of these people would be capable of kidnapping one of the children?"

"Pfft!" Jose tossed a hand up. "The way people are these days? Who knows!" He resumed leading Malcolm to the backstage door. "You can't trust anybody. Not like in the old days. My daughters, they were good girls. None of this...," he flapped a hand dismissively; "scandalous dresses, showing off. Then the news, always somebody doing something worse to someone else."

"What do you think about the Vigilante?" he couldn't help but ask.

Jose chuckled. "The rich guys have to answer for their crimes? Ha!" He grinned. "It's about time."

===#===

_Backstage_

Backstage was a madhouse.

Jose vetted Malcolm to the harried organizers. Two young women were helping the girls with makeup, one grumpy-faced woman was yelling instructions on how the costumes and props were to be brought in, labeled and stored. The girls were running amok, shrill voices complaining, arguing, and whining about the least little detail.

"It's a dress rehearsal," the harried stage manager said in dramatic emphasis. "Of _course_ it's going to be a disaster!" It was unclear who he was speaking to, and no one seemed to be listening anyway. He managed to have five different conversations at once- with the girls, the stage hands, and his headset- while in between, he informed Malcolm that he wasn't supposed to talk to the press, but he was more than happy to have a chat over a coffee after rehearsals.

Malcolm didn't think that was going to go anywhere. He finally ensconced himself in front of the midstage curtain, tempted to hide within its folds. He and Rebecca had always wanted a little girl. They'd talked about having another child, once her internship was over. But those dreams had died along with her. That, he thought with a stab of shame, could only have been for the better. Look what a mess he'd made with his son. If there's also been a baby...

He rubbed his face and dragged his mind back to the present. The security around here was lax. If he were some kidnapper, or casing the joint with an eye to snatching one of the girls, he wouldn't have much difficulty getting in.

"You're an idiot!"

"Well, you're a moron!"

Malcolm looked over to where three girls stood arguing in the wings. One was dressed as a 1920's flapper, complete with fringes, feathers, and ropes of faux pearls. Her dark curly hair was teased into a cloud held by a glittering tiara. A second was dressed in leotards and bedecked with coloured ribbons draping from her arms and her long golden ponytail. The two of them faced another girl made up as a clown in oversized patchwork clothes. She held a rope that was wound loosely around her legs.

"Your dad is a shoe salesman," the flapper said with disdain.

"Yeah, he's Al Bundy," the ribbon-dancer scoffed. "Why would anybody kidnap _you?_"

"They might!"

The flapper fluffed her curls. "Mrs. Waterford said it's perfectly safe."

"How would she know?" the clown demanded.

Malcolm began to wonder the same thing. How could Waterford be so sure the kidnapping had nothing to do with the pageant? Could she have inside knowledge about it? Damn, he'd have to try to talk to the woman again, or at least slip away and try to snoop in her office.

"You believe everything anyone tells you, Latisha. You're so dumb!"

"You're a total clueless doofus! Who else would dress up as a clown at a beauty pageant?"

"Jenny _is_ a clown." The ribbon-dancer tugged at the oversized shirt. "Isn't this what you wear every day?"

"Cut it out, Tiffany!" This was punctuated by a sharp bark that came from a mop of fur at the end of the rope.

Tiffany jumped back. "Ugh, keep that dog away from me. I'll get fleas!"

"Dog?" said Latisha. "I thought it was her twin sister." The two girls brayed laughter at the hapless third.

Jenny stooped to console her dog. "Ignore those idiots, Tiny."

Further discussion of relative intelligence was cut short as the stage manager bellowed out: "Tiffany Georgios! Tiffany! You're up!"

The ribbon-girl squealed. "I'm on!" She and Latisha hugged and giggled in excitement. Tiffany disengaged and gave an over-exaggerated wave. "My public awaits," she exclaimed in _dramatis voce_. "You girls have fun fighting for a very distant second place!" She pirouetted and ran out onto the stage, her ribbons fluttering in a rainbow wake.

Behind her back, Latisha made a stink-face with her tongue stuck out and turned away, brushing her costume as if it had been sullied.

_Yeah_, thought Malcolm. If this was the 'one big, happy family' where all the members were loving and supportive of each other, he'd hate to see a bunch of catty little... wenches.

He peered out beyond the stage at the gathered parents. He worried that his plan to be clandestine had robbed him of the opportunity to find out which parents belonged to which child. However, it was quite clear, based on who cheered and who merely clapped politely. He watched them like a hawk, but the adults were mature enough to keep their personal opinions hidden under a veneer of civilized behavior.

"Are you the talent scout?"

Malcolm looked back. The young girl with the dog had spotted him. "Oh," he said in surprise. Surprise that he rumor had managed to arrive backstage before he did. "You didn't hear that from me," he said with a wink and a smile. He didn't want to appear too charming, or he'd look suspicious. So he hunkered down and offered his hand to the dog. The fur mop sniffed it carefully, then decided he was all right and started wagging his tail. Jenny relaxed a notch.

"Why are you looking for talent in a beauty contest?" she asked.

"Well, this is the talent portion of the competition, isn't it?"

She shrugged.

"You're doing an act with your dog?"

"Yeah. I trained Tiny myself," she said proudly.

"You're brave. I think it was W. C. Fields who once said, 'never work with children or animals.' They can be quite unpredictable."

"I am a kid," she pointed out, and he chuckled. "Besides, that's why it's a clown act. Even if we mess up and it's a total disaster, at least it will be funny. People will think it's part of the show."

Malcolm had to admire her ingenuity. Their conversation was interrupted by the stage manager calling Latisha Michaels to the stage. They made way for the little flapper girl to go out. Malcolm scanned the families in the audience again. He noted the beaming faces of the parents and complete lack of any diabolical hatred on anyone else. What did Oliver expect, for them to have banners declaring 'Die, kid, die'?

"So do you like the pageants?" he asked Jenny.

"They're stupid."

"Why are you in it? You seem pretty smart." Were her parents forcing her?

"I want to win a scholarship. My parents don't have a lot of money to send me to college," she confessed.

"What do you want to study?"

"Engineering," she said. "I want to build bridges. I love those games, you know? You have to build a bridge that can hold a certain weight. They use real physics." Her voice became more animated as she discussed something she clearly enjoyed.

"Why don't you enter the Science Fair?" He was truly puzzled. "You could build a model of a bridge." Did they still do that? Build models out of popsicle sticks? Malcolm could hardly remember his childhood school projects. Tommy hadn't really gone for extracurricular activities.

"If I build it for real, it will probably fall over." She shrugged. "I'm lousy at crafts."

Malcolm pondered this as another girl took the stage. Then it was Jenny's turn. He thought she did rather well, but he was probably biased from talking to her. Her parents weren't there, he noted. They had to work, he found out later. Could they be that desperate for money that they would try to ransom the other girl? But then why hadn't they gone after one of the richer families? Or was it a simple matter of eliminating competition?

At the end of the rehearsal, he was no closer to unraveling the truth than he was before. He hoped Oliver's lead turned out to be more productive.

===#===

_Verdant Basement_

Diggle followed his boss in through the back door. "I still cannot believe how many new friends Melvin has."

"Having Ben Franklin on your team never hurts," Oliver said smugly.

Diggle had expected a seedy bar, surly bikers, and some sort of throwdown before they'd be able to eke out some rumors. Instead, they'd had a couple rouds of beer, Melvin had dropped some bills, and it was just like going to the bank and withdrawing information. Actually, Diggle felt somewhat superfluous.

Oliver tensed a moment, then tried to cover it. Diggle picked up on it anyway and went on alert. Then he saw Merlyn waiting in their lair. That set Diggle's teeth on edge.

Merlyn cocked a brow at Oliver's getup.

"We were undercover," Diggle explained.

"Actually," Merlyn said to Oliver, "didn't you used to wear your hair that way?"

Oliver swiped the joke hat and wig off his head. "Did you find any suspects at the rehearsal?" he said sharply, before anyone could comment further.

Merlyn threw up his hands in an exaggerated shrug. "Well, I didn't eliminate anyone. I wouldn't be surprised if all those girls were out in the parking lot clubbing each other in the kneecaps."

"Oh, we're not jaded or anything," Diggle said. Oliver moved to the back table to start shucking his disguise. Diggle moved to the side table, flanking him and hemming Merlyn in.

"These beauty pageants are degrading to women, and it's disgusting to put children on show like that."

"Oh, come on." Diggle folded his arms. "It's just some fun for the kids. It lets them dress up and act like grown-ups."

Merlyn set his jaw. "And just what criteria do the grown-ups use to judge a group of 7-year-old girls in bathing suits?"

"By how cute they are?" Diggle scowled at the man. "What are you, some kind of pervert?"

"All right," Oliver cut in; "That's enough. Diggs, you know how to work that Google Map Earth thing, right?"

Diggle went over to the computer station, brushing Merlyn aside. Oliver continued filling him in. "We found where they're holding the girl. We don't need to know who orchestrated the kidnapping in order to get out, so we're good to go. The police can figure out the rest, later."

Oliver came over to the computer, shadowed by Merlyn. It was times like these where Diggle missed Felicity the most. She could make the computer dance and sing, and he could stand back and keep a wary eye on Merlyn. Of course, Felicity would probably feel even more uncomfortable with the man looming at her back.

Diggle shook it off. Just because Merlyn had beaten Oliver twice didn't make him invincible. Hell, if Diggle had been along, things would have gone a whole lot differently. He would've brought a gun to the arrow-fight, and that would have been that.

He zoomed in on the map. "This is the place, 368 Coldwell Street."

Oliver peered over his shoulder. "Put the little guy on the street, so we can see it."

"I do know how to use this," Diggle pointed out. He dragged the orange man icon onto the map, and it was replaced with a still shot of the street. He turned the view to face the buildings. They were typical inner city two-storey storefronts, crowded together.

"We did a quick recon earlier," Oliver was explaining to Merlyn. "This is a barber shop, between a dry cleaner and electronics shop."

Diggle added, "There are apartments on the second floor. They could be holding Crystal up there, or in the back rooms."

"We didn't get a look inside. Turn the view around."

Diggle clicked the arrows to show the buildings across the street. They were more of the same, plus a demolished lot closed off with a chain-link fence. Oliver narrated. "This Korean market was abandoned. Malcolm, I want you to get on the roof and cover Diggle as he goes in the front. I'll take the back, upstairs."

"What's out the back?"

"There's an alley, backed by an eight-foot concrete wall. On the other side is an auto junkyard. It takes up a couple blocks."

"So they can't really bolt that way?"

Diggle said, "If they do, they have to traverse the alley to get out. They're closest to the south end, so they'll probably turn right." He zoomed out to satellite view so they could get the lay of the land. They discussed insertion points and exit strategies, and made note of discrepancies between the old satellite photos and new developments. Merlyn's question about the back alley bolthole had been a good one, but it was clear that the man with the city incursion experience was Diggle.

Merlyn seemed willing to follow his lead. Diggle suspected he might be up to something. But frankly... what? Guy wasn't so heartless as to jeopardize a child's life with some petty power game. He had to grudgingly admit that Merlyn was an asset on this mission.

Oliver broke up the strategy meeting. "All right, meet back here at 8:30. I want to hit this place a little after nine. It should be dark enough by then."

===_X_===


	21. Above All Else, Part 3

**Above All Else, Part 3**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure

Language: a bit

Violence: yes

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. It's just that it takes place in the real world, so I have to have real world names. They do not refer to anyone specific.

About Race: this story contains characters of various ethnicity. Some people consider it racist to mention a character's race. However, if you leave that off, most readers (of any ethnicity) assume white, and if you make a story comprised of entirely white characters, _that_ is racist. So one can describe a character's ethnicity without referring to race, but there is the contingent that holds that using any type of food product to describe skin colour is offensive. This includes not only mocha but peaches and cream as well. Probably even corn silk hair, although corn silk technically isn't edible.

Since this story is not about racism, but classism and sexism, the race of each character makes no difference whatsoever. Therefore, I have pretty much left it vague. I'm not happy with this choice, as I feel the character descriptions suffer, but I suppose it doesn't matter what they look like, anyway.

Ebonics derived from listening/watching too much Eddie Murphy. Eddie Murphy does not appear in, nor does he endorse this fanfic.

Name brands used with wild abandon. All brands belong to their respective trademark holders. None of them endorse this fanfic either.

Bloodsong proves not to be the only one who sucks at coming up with cool names. My characters do, too. Imagine that. :X Bloodsong also talks too much and writes author notes that are WAY too long. Shutting up, now.

* * *

**Above All Else, Part 3**

===#===

_Verdant Basement_

The men checked their gear. Malcolm and Oliver had their leathers; Diggle wore his casual streetwear and his hoodie. Oliver sprayed the cammo paint over his eyes to help mask his features.

"Now, we all remember the plan," he said.

"I'm taking the front," Diggle replied.

Malcolm added, "I'm on the roof across the street."

Oliver nodded. "And I'll take the second floor window at the back." He looked to each of his comrades in turn. "Our one and only objective is the safety and liberation of the little girl, Crystal Thompson." Malcolm waited for him to also add 'no killing' to the directive, but wisely, Oliver stayed silent on the matter. Criminals who preyed on the innocent didn't deserve to live. "Get into position and report. We don't know how many guys we'll be up against. Wait for my command before going in." He looked at Malcolm. "You still have the earpiece I gave you?"

"Yes." He took it out and they did a quick comms check. Malcolm hooked it over his ear. "What names do you use?"

"Um... Oliver and Diggle." Oliver shrugged.

Malcolm looked between him and his man Diggle. "Seriously? You don't use code names?" They looked sheepishly at each other. "You do realize that any kid with a Radio Shack kit could conceivably jack your signal and post your conversations to YouTube." By the look on their faces, no, they didn't. He suppressed a sigh. "Fine. Mr. Diggle, you were in the military. Did you have a call sign?"

"Just Digger." He shrugged.

"All right, if you're happy with that. Oliver?"

"As long as it's not 'The Hood Guy.'"

"Or 'Green Arrow,'" Malcolm remembered from the Christmas dinner.

"It sounds like a traffic signal," Oliver complained.

"Look," said Diggle, pointing. "Green Archer, Black Archer, Base."

"What if you're not at the base?"

"Then it's 'bass' like bass guitar." He mimed an air guitar. "The back-up man."

"Fine," Oliver agreed.

"All right, but since the police are looking for archers, can we leave that part off?"

"Green and Black?" Diggle asked.

"Fine," Oliver agreed again.

Diggle looked at Malcolm. "I guess that makes you the black man in this operation." The Dark Archer just rolled his eyes.

===#===

_Coldwell Street_

Diggle strode down the street, his shoulders hunched, his hood up. He peered sidewise at the barber shop as he passed, but the front was dark except for a dim night light. "I don't see anyone downstairs," he mumbled into the mic after he'd passed. "Everything else is closed up and quiet, too." He strolled to the demolished lot and leaned back on the fence, pulling his hood down. Just a neighborhood punk hanging out and chilling. Nothing to see here. He waited for the others to get into position, nodding his head and wagging his elbows as he pretended to listen to an imaginary iPod.

"_I see three men downstairs in the back. It looks like a kitchen._" That would be Oliver. The voice changers the archers used made them sound the same. Diggle was going to have to get them to identify themselves when they reported in.

"_The curtains are drawn upstairs at the front._" That would be Merlyn. "_I can only make out two shadows._"

"Do you see the girl?"

"_One is big and the other is small, but not small enough to be a child._"

"Green, are we sure this is the right place?"

"_Unless these guys like Froot Loops. She could be in bed here at the back._" There was a pause as Oliver changed position. "_We don't want a firefight. Quick and clean._"

Diggle licked his lips and straightened, ready to move. He wasn't entirely sure if Oliver had said that last, or Merlyn. He shook it off; they had a job to do.

"_Base, you ready to roll?_"

"Hang on, I see a problem." As Diggle looked down the street, he saw a flare of match light in a car parked across the street from the barber shop. Some guy- no, there were two, he saw in the ember flare- was sitting in the car and smoking. He reported it on the comm, and they speculated if it could be undercover police officers. "Their car is too flash for the cops." Diggle peered, but tried not to look as if he were looking at them. "They're not watching the building. They're watching the street. They must be lookouts."

"_We can't make a move until they're neutralized._"

"_Lure them out of the car._"

Diggle could see where that would lead. But that's why Merlyn was on the roof, right? Gunfire would draw way too much attention. "You mean like with a brilliant diversion?" he asked, wondering if he could come up with one.

"_What would Eddie Murphy do in a situation like this?_"

"Ugh. My mother would kill me if she saw me acting like that." Diggle frowned. Worst of all, he wasn't sure if that Eddie Murphy comment was Oliver teasing him or Merlyn goading him.

===#===

The roof of the empty building was dark; Malcolm had checked that he would not be backlit as he stood beside the crumbling retaining wall. He leaned out and looked down. He saw the flare and glow of the cigarette in the windshield of the car below, but it was parked too close for him to get a shot in the side window.

He put an arrow to string and held his bow ready to draw. He controlled his breathing, keeping it slow and steady as he waited to make the kill.

A drunken black man staggered down the street. "Hey, man!" he said brightly, and far too loudly. "You got some smokes? Gimme a smoke, man!"

The driver of the car growled something negative, but the drunk persisted.

"Come on, man! Don't be like that. I'm good for it! Hey, why yous sittin' out here inna dark?" He wavered a moment before regaining his balance. "Hey, le's go inside and have us a drink and a smoke!"

"Will you get lost, you dumbass!"

"Ain't no reason to be like that! Why you be like that? I'mma be yo' friend!" The drunk staggered back and half-turned, raising his arms to the neighborhood in general. "We can all be friends. Hey!" he yelled out. "Hey, anybody got some beer? Tha's what we need, some beers and some smokes!"

Malcolm curled his fingertips around the string, putting pressure on it so he could feel it through the glove. Below on the street, the drunk was still making a ruckus. With a curse, the driver got out of the car and moved to get rid of the nuisance. Malcolm said softly, "Get them both out of the car."

Before the driver could throw a punch or shove the drunk, the latter collapsed into his arms. "Son of a-!" He tried to dump the passed-out body, but somehow, the drunken fool clung to him. "Dammit! Help me!"

Malcolm raised the bow and slowly drew back the arrow, focusing on the passenger door of the car.

===#===

Diggle clung to the kidnapper- guy was definitely no cop- trying to keep the guy from reaching his weapons, and hoping he didn't get slugged for his efforts. He threw his weight against the guy and turned him so he could see the second target.

The passenger door of the car opened, and the man started to get out. He ducked to clear the roof of the car, and then just continued straight down. He was dead that fast.

Diggle surged upright, slugging his man in the gut. He cracked an elbow across his skull to drop him.

He heard something behind him and turned. A clean cut young man stood in the doorway of the barber shop, his eyes wide in shock. He was already reaching into his jacket. Diggle went for his own gun, fearing he was too late, but in the next instant, a black arrow sprouted from the man's chest, and he dropped bonelessly to the ground.

Diggle's heart restarted.

Merlyn was already reporting to Oliver. "_Two guards down; one man from inside down. No movement from upstairs._"

===#===

Oliver had not been idle. He'd gotten the upstairs window jimmied open quietly. "Acknowledged," he said, pressing his earpiece. "Go to open comms. Engage. I'm going in." He slipped inside and crept past the stairwell. He opened a door on his left. It was a tiny bedroom with a dim nightlight on. It was unoccupied. "She's not upstairs in the back room," he reported.

As he turned to continue, one of the kidnappers appeared at the other end of the hall. He was a hefty guy, mostly flab. "Hell!" he yelled as Oliver raised his bow and fired. The guy ducked back, and the arrow just winged him.

Oliver sent another arrow quickly after the first, expecting the goon to reappear with a gun. Guy wasn't stupid, though. He kept himself squeezed behind the doorjamb as he aimed down the hall.

Oliver retreated to the scant safety of the bedroom doorway as shots began taking chunks out of the walls.

===#===

Diggle cleared the empty barber shop and pressed his back to the wall beside the curtained doorway that led to the back. He pushed the drape aside with the barrel of his gun and took a look. The hall led to a back door, with narrow stairs on the right, and an open doorway spilling out light on the left.

He slipped down the hall and edged up to the doorway of what must be the kitchen. He heard the murmur of voices, two men. Where was the girl? Since Oliver hadn't found her upstairs, she might be in there with them. What he needed now was another diversion.

Just then, someone upstairs yelled, "Hell!" And a moment later, shots rang out.

Diggle heard the little girl start to cry and he gritted his teeth, holding position instead of busting in there to save her. The men were wondering what the hell was going on, and one told the other to check it out.

One of them came into a hall, following his gun that he held at arm's length. Diggle clubbed down on his hand, cracking upwards with his other arm to knock the weapon out of the man's grip. He yelped; Diggle pointed his weapon in the guy's face, and the guy raised his hands. "We ain't hurt nobody!"

Diggle shoved him towards the wall. "Turn around." He held the guy pinned beside the doorway, gun at his head, while he looked into the kitchen.

The other guy was there, frozen in the act of coming around the table. He had a gun out as well.

"Drop it!" Diggle yelled, keeping himself shielded by the wall and his prisoner. He pointed his gun into the kitchen.

That man ducked and jerked back. "I have the girl!" He tugged Crystal out of a chair. "You drop it!"

Diggle put his gun to the back of his prisoner's head. "Let her go, or your buddy gets it!"

The other guy clutched Crystal to him, using her as a shield. The girl's eyes and nose were red and puffy; she cried quietly in his grip. "I think you care a hell of a lot more about this kid than I do about him!"

"Hey!" Diggle's man yelped.

Diggle cursed underbreath as the mission went to hell.

===#===

Malcolm couldn't see his targets through the drapes, but Oliver was pinned down. And stealth? It sounded like a wild west movie in there. He sent two arrows at the windows, shattering them.

The small guy started firing towards him. Malcolm began to duck, but then realized the man was aiming at the windows below him, assuming the shots had come from there.

Calmly, the Dark Archer fitted an arrow to string and shot the gunman in the junction of shoulder and neck, followed quickly by a shot to the chest as he fell, arms flying wide.

He quickly took aim at the big man shooting at Oliver, but held his fire.

===#===

When the glass shattered behind the gunmen, Oliver took the opportunity to charge down the hall and grapple with his target. He was used to fighting men who were physically fit and trained to take a hit and keep on fighting. This was a new experience for him, as his punches seemed to be absorbed by layers of fat, producing no results whatsoever. He ducked a meaty fist. The guy wasn't very quick, but with that mountain of weight behind his blows, one hit would be all he'd need. It was daunting, but Oliver trusted his skill would win out in the end.

The guy lunged and slammed him into a suffocating bearhug.

===#===

"Don't mess with me! You cops are screwed if little missy gets so much as a scratch!"

Diggle raised his gun in surrender, but he kept his other hand on his prisoner's back. "Look, we're not the cops. Just leave the girl, and you can rabbit out the back."

"What kind of crap is that?" His gun wavered. He didn't seem to know whether to keep the gun on the girl or try to shoot Diggle.

Just then, a huge body crashed down the stairs and landed in a groaning heap in the corner. The Starling City Vigilante leapt down on him like a panther. With a wet crunch of bone and cartilage, he wrenched the kidnapper's neck, and the big man went limp.

In the blink of an eye, the Vigilante had an arrow drawn and pointed at the man in the kitchen.

"You know who I am," Oliver said loudly. "I am not the police, and I don't care if you go to jail. Release the girl and walk out that door." No one dared take a breath. The arrow didn't waver. "Or we can fight this out. I am not a cop. I can kill you, and I will."

"Okay, okay! Look, here I come; don't shoot!" The man raised his gun in surrender, but kept Crystal clutched to him. He scooted with her towards the doorway. "Let my buddy go. To the door."

Diggle shot a glance over his shoulder. Oliver gave the barest nod. Diggle turned his prisoner towards the back door, stepped back out of reach, and leveled his gun on the man. "Don't try anything."

"N-N-No no! Nothing!" The weasel scurried backwards until he hit the door. He groped for the knob.

The final kidnapper edged into the hall and sidled towards his cohort. The green arrow followed his movement. "How do I know you won't shoot us soon as I let go of the girl?"

"I could shoot you now," Oliver said coldly. "At this distance, I can't miss."

"Ulp," was the only reply the guy could come up with. The keening wail of distant sirens helped him make up his mind. "Get the door," he hissed at his companion. The door opened, the man shoved Crystal forward, and the two kidnappers bolted, slamming the door behind them.

Crying out, Crystal skidded to her hands and knees on the floor. Diggle flicked the safety on his gun, secured it, and hurried to pick her up. "Here, sweetheart; it's okay; you're okay."

She curled against his chest. "Don't feel good," she mumbled. Then a dry cough racked her body.

Diggle rubbed her back. "She's burning up," he told Oliver as he brushed his hand over her forehead. Crystal snuggled deeper into his sweatshirt.

"The police are almost here. Take her out front." Oliver disappeared back up the stairs.

Diggle carried Crystal into the barber shop, careful to keep her turned away from the body in front of the door. He set her in one of the big leather-upholstered chairs, and found a couple of draping sheets to wrap her into. He tugged the top one up and forward, giving her a little hood of her own. The sirens were growing closer by the second, and Diggle's heart thumped. If he were in here when they arrived, there were going to be way too many awkward questions. He turned to pull away, but Crystal clutched at his sleeve.

"I have to go, sweetheart," he said gently. "The police will be here any moment. Just stay put, and they'll take you home, okay?"

Her soulful eyes looked at him a long moment. Then she sniffled and nodded. She withdrew her hand and curled up tighter into the sheets. It tore at his heart to leave her alone, sick and miserable, crying silently, but he had to move, _now_.

He stopped just inside the door. "Is the front street clear?" There was no answer on the comms. "Black?" He couldn't wait; he'd have to duck out and hope nobody saw him. Or worse, tried to stop him.

===#===

"What about the money?" Riley bitched.

"We got half, we got away, and those psychos-" Glover threw a panicked look back over his shoulder, so he didn't see Riley drop right in front of him. Then pain exploded in his neck.

The next thing he knew, he was on the dirty ground of the alleyway, gasping and choking, and _what the hell?_ He groped for his gun.

===#===

Malcolm cursed silently. He'd meant to take both men out with one clean shot. The second had turned unexpectedly, and the arrow had clipped his windpipe instead of the carotid. At least he couldn't scream, but he was making enough of a racket thrashing around.

Malcolm nocked another arrow before the man could free his gun from its holster. In rapid succession, he planted three arrows in the kidnapper's heart, even before the body finished collapsing.

"_Black, where the hell are you? You're supposed to be covering the front._" Diggle's voice spoke in his ear.

"Recon," he replied smoothly. "Did you make it to your exits?"

"_Just about,_" Diggle affirmed grudgingly.

"_Yes,_" came the deeper tone of the voice-changer. "_Base, stick around, make sure things go smoothly. Black, meet back at the rendezvous._"

"Affirmative," he said, and Diggle acknowledged the orders as well. Malcolm stepped forward to retrieve his arrows, but stopped. There was a lot of blood pooling around the bodies, and he didn't want to leave tracks. Those, the police could trace. As for the arrows, they only let to Sagittarius Corporation, which could not be directly linked to him. Gritting his teeth, he backtracked the way he had come and slipped through the police net before it closed.

===#===

Diggle reversed the hoodie; the lining was light grey with a red stripe across the shoulders. He didn't want to appear to be skulking around and trying to hide. He milled about with some other brave (or stupid) gawkers from the street. The police arrived, and soon a young officer was herding them back from the scene, while others cautiously approached the barber shop.

His heart went out again to the little girl, who must be terrified with all those armed men surrounding the building, one on the bullhorn demanding the surrender of anyone still inside. "They all dead, yo!" he called out in his actor's voice, but the police wouldn't rush into a potentially dangerous situation.

A siren yelped behind the crowd, and they parted to let the ambulance through.

===#===

_Verdant Basement_

Malcolm pulled up to the club's back door a few minutes behind Oliver. He went inside to find the young man with his hood and jacket off, but his face still masked with warpaint. His eyes flashed like steel in contrast. "I know what you did," he growled without preamble.

"You can't possibly think it was wrong." Malcolm pulled his gloves off.

Oliver clenched his hands into gnarled fists. "I said I'd let those two go."

"To ensure the girl's safety. I understand that." He set his gloves on the side table and began working the side fasteners of his leather tunic. "But once she was safe-"

Oliver overrode him "I think you're not quite on board with how my team operates. We do not kill people when it isn't necessary."

"Those men saw you. They saw Diggle. Now maybe they couldn't identify you, but him?" Malcolm met the boy's gaze, because he knew he was right. Oliver glanced aside first.

Then he moved closer, his voice low. "That doesn't explain why snuck around and then lied about what you were doing."

"You were busy engaging those men while they were threatening the girl. I didn't want to distract you with comm chatter," Malcolm answered levelly. "And yes, you're right; I didn't want to get into a huge argument over ethics while out in the field, so I lied." Oliver huffed in ire, clenching his teeth. Malcolm cut him off before he could say anything. "You can't possibly believe anything good could come out of letting them live."

"I told you, I run this operation! You do not slip off and pursue your own vendettas."

"They were criminals, kidnappers of the worst sort- who knows what they were planning to do with that poor little girl?"

"You want me to trust you? You need to prove to me you can be trusted," Oliver snarled.

"Do I need to ask permission for every move I make?" Malcolm snapped back. "Should I have stopped to ask before I took out the sentry? Or stopped that man from shooting Diggle in the back?"

"No." Oliver turned and paced away as if afraid of losing control and lashing out. His movements were stiff with tension; the tendons of his neck stood out.

"I know you don't have any problem with killing criminal scum, so what exactly has you so put out?"

"We didn't find out who arranged this kidnapping."

Malcolm thought this a shoddy excuse. "The police can handle that. If it was an amateur job like your informant suggested, there should be plenty of clues." He shrugged off his tunic.

They were interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Diggle. "Crystal is safe and sound and on her way home to her parents." He stopped short, noting the tension between the two men. "Did I miss something?"

"Merlyn killed those two guys in the alley," Oliver said.

Malcolm shot a glance at Diggle. There was a flash of expression on his face; he opened his mouth to say something, then just as quickly changed his mind. But he'd been about to agree that it was the best course of action, Malcolm was sure of it.

Oliver sensed the brief pause and turned his glare on his partner. "You agree with his actions." It was barely a question.

"They did see us," Diggle said pragmatically. "If the cops picked them up, they'd be falling all over themselves trying to make a deal to turn over the Hood." Wisely, Diggle stopped there, because Oliver looked as if he were chewing leather.

"Let me make this clear," he bit out. "The difference between a vigilante and a murderer is, the vigilante is about justice and reform, and giving people a second chance." He glared at Malcolm. "And you, you follow my lead, not your own agenda. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Malcolm replied, not because he was cowed, but because it was what Oliver wanted to hear. The boy wasn't interested in logic, so arguing with him was useless. Malcolm gathered his gear. "If we're done here?"

Oliver nodded and waved him off. Malcolm returned to his own lair.

===#===

"What was that all about?" Diggle asked after Merlyn had gone.

Oliver unclenched his fists, slowly and with effort. "He lied about what he was doing- you heard him."

"Did he say why?"

"He said he didn't want an argument." Oliver paced, radiating agitation. "He expects us to trust him, then he pulls this bullshit!"

"Well, I never agreed to trust him. but he did do a damned good job tonight." Oliver shot a glare over his shoulder. Diggle put his hands up defensively. "He did save my ass, I have to give him that. And frankly, Oliver, cleaning up those two in the alley... It was the smartest move."

"You had no intention of letting them go?" He grabbed his escrima sticks and moved over to the training posts. Clearly, he needed to work off some energy.

Diggle raised his voice over the clamor of the rapid strikes. "I meant when I said the girl was more important than catching them. And I would have let them get away, if it meant saving her." In fact, that's what he'd done. "But frankly? It's better this way."

Oliver clobbered the head of the hapless post with both clubs at once. Then he turned, panting, to Diggle. "Oh, so great, now you're on his side?"

"No. I agree with you. We can't trust him- I said that from the get-go. We need to keep a close eye and a tight leash on this guy." He pursed his lips. "But Oliver, it's like holding a tiger by the tail."

"Once we get Felicity back, we won't need him. I hope."

Diggle chewed his lip. "I don't know, Oliver. If we want to find the Markov Device... well, you know what they say about keeping your enemies close."

Oliver let out a long, deep sigh of frustration. He turned back to the training posts. "You should go out, celebrate a job well done down at your favorite burger joint."

"You should come with me."

Oliver cocked a glance at him between strokes. "I think Carly would prefer if I didn't always tag along with you."

Diggle grimaced. "Come on, Oliver. Carly and I burned that bridge already." The attraction was there. He loved Carly and his nephew deeply. But the spectre of his brother would always stand in their way.

"Maybe it's time to build a new bridge."

"I don't think so," he deflected. "What about you and Laurel?"

Oliver missed a beat, then pulled back, letting his arms drop. "That's... complicated. I thought by now I'd be done with all this skulking and lying. But it's just gotten worse. And if I screw up with her again, we'll be through." He frowned.

"Maybe it's time you confided in her," Diggle began.

"No!" Oliver's eyes widened. "No, I can't."

"She's all about justice, isn't she? She would understand."

"No! All she would hear is that I'm a killer. I couldn't bear to see that look in her eyes, Diggs. The way Tommy looks at me. And my mother..." He shook his head, turned away.

Diggle hadn't meant to put his mood in a bad place. "All right, all right. It'll be fine; you've made it this far. Now how bout a Belly Buster Biggy Burger and double order of fries?"

Oliver took a breath and nodded. He made an effort to smile. It was clear that it was an effort, but at least the thought was there. "All right." He turned to finish changing his clothes.

"Oh, and Oliver?" He waited until the young vigilante turned back. "Make sue you wash your face before you go out."

He tried not to laugh as Oliver startled and reflexively touched the facepaint.

"I swear, one of these days you're going to walk into the club with that on and wonder why everybody is staring at you."

Oliver made a disparaging noise and waved that off. "I'll just break down and confess to my secret life as a transvestite," he called over his shoulder. At least this time his smile came more easily.

===_X_===

* * *

_Outtake: The Three-Man Band_

Diggle: Look... ::points to Oliver, Malcolm, and himself:: Lead, Guitar, Bass. ::mimes an air guitar.

Oliver: And what is Felicity, when she gets back? Drums?

Diggle: Nah, man- Keyboard!

Oliver & Malcom: ::both groan, but then suddenly quit and glare at each other in animosity, affronted to have agreed on something::


	22. Above All Else, Part 4

**Above All Else, Part 4**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure

Language: a bit

Violence: aftermath

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. It's just that it takes place in the real world, so I have to have real world names. They do not refer to anyone specific.

Thanks to KC (who totally needs to be an Arrow Wiki editor), the character formerly known as Parker is now more properly known as Lucas Hilton.

This will be the last segment of 'Above All Else.' However, the storyline is not completely resolved yet. Don't worry, it will be.

Bonus points to me for using the word "literally" properly! Instead of, you know, figuratively.

For those who may be interested, I have written an essay on my character analysis of Malcolm Merlyn. It is on my blog which can be found under BloodsongTermagant on WordPress dot com. Search for Arrow or Malcolm Merlyn if you don't see it.

* * *

**Above All Else, Part 4**

===#===

Caldwell street glowed with light from headlights, flashlights, work lamps. Red and blue lights flickered and strobed at the corners of the scene as both uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives moved back and forth, dodging out of each other's way. Quentin Lance flashed his badge and ducked under the yellow tape a tall patrolman lifted for him. He pushed his way towards the center of the chaos, his partner following in his wake.

A short blonde woman met them. "Welcome to the party. I'm McCullough, this is Wizitski; Homicide." She flipped a hand at a dour man standing nearby, consulting his notebook.

"Detective Lance. This is Hilton. We're on the Hood case. What have we got?"

"We got a call for what we thought was a typical gangland shootout. Only the gangstas don't typically use these." McCullough gestured, and Wizitski handed Quentin a bagged arrow.

"This is not the Hood Guy," he said. He peered more closely at the black shaft, comparing the shape of the arrowhead with the others he'd seen. "It's the Copycat. Did you find any green arrows?" He passed the evidence to Hilton to look over.

Wizitski said, "There's two, in the woodwork upstairs. None in any of the vics."

"We have five dead guys with black arrows in them," McCullough continued. "One guy dead from a broken neck, and one knocked out."

"One's alive?" Lance asked eagerly. "Where is he?"

"Gone down to Mercy," McCullough said.

Her partner added, "So's the little girl."

"Girl?"

She nodded. "The kidnap victim, Crystal Thompson." She gestured towards a burly man coming out of the barber shop. "That's Jefferson, from Major Case."

He came over, eyeing Lance and his partner. "Gangs, Homicide, Major Case, and now the Vigilante crew," he said sourly.

"We don't think this is a gang," McCullough said. "Doesn't fit the profile- mixed race, different age groups..."

"It's a random bunch of thugs?" Hilton asked.

Jefferson said, "Maybe it's Robin Hood's band of Merry Men."

Quentin winced. "That's just what we need, a buncha yahoos who want to follow this lunatic." He shook his head. "No, this isn't his style. Outside the law or not, this vigilante is all about justice. He'd never kidnap a little girl."

"This doesn't fit the Copycat's M.O. either," Hilton said. "He assassinates rich guys, scientists, the upper crust. He kidnaps people, he doesn't rescue them."

"It doesn't make sense," McCullough said. "Green arrows inside, black arrows inside and out. It looks like the black guy made a frontal assault on the green guy and his goons inside."

"The black guy?" Jefferson asked, cocking a brow at her.

"You know what I mean."

Hilton said, "It's either that, or they were working together to rescue the girl. From whoever these guys are."

"That doesn't make sense, either," Lance said. "Last Christmas, the Copycat called the Vigilante out for a grudge match."

"Who won?" McCullough asked.

"We dunno. We were a little busy guiding the hostages out of a booby-trapped warehouse. By the time we got done, there was no sign of either one of 'em."

"Maybe this isn't the Copycat," said Hilton. "Maybe it's a copycat of the Copycat. Or maybe this isn't the Hood Guy, but a copycat of the Hood Guy."

Lance rubbed his forehead. "What are you trying to do, give me a migraine?"

"I'm just trying to think outside the box."

"Well let's try to think inside the evidence, okay? We can double-check with the lab, but this arrow looks identical to the Copycat's." He nodded at McCullough. "Can you walk us through the scene?"

===#===

The crime scene told a story of chaos. All the pieces wouldn't fall into place until the investigators and coroners finished processing everything. Lance ordered a CSI team to the abandoned building across the street when he learned the black arrows were probably launched from there. But that would have to wait until they were done with the main scene.

The last two bodies were out the back. Lance and Hilton walked towards them. "Watch your shoes," the deputy coroner warned. Blood pooled thickly on the alley floor.

"Three to the chest," Lance remarked, looking down at the nearest body. "The Copycat's signature. It's got to be him."

"This makes less and less sense."

"Tell me about it." Quentin blew out a breath and looked around. No answers jumped out at him, or appeared written on the wall. "Maybe the witnesses can shed some light on what the hell happened." He looked back at McCullough.

She cocked a brow. "A little girl and a kidnapper? Good luck with that."

===#===

The thug lawyered-up and wouldn't say a thing. Child Advocacy wouldn't let Quentin see Crystal until the next day. He paid a visit to the Thompson residence. Brenda and Leonard looked harried, but they'd been dealing with the press, and he couldn't blame them. Crystal was tucked up in her bed, looking miserable, her eyes puffy and nose reddened.

"Hello, Crystal," he said gently. "I'm Detective Lance. I'm a policeman."

She nodded, sniffling.

He sat in the chair that had been brought in by her bed. Probably where her mother had kept watch all night. "Can you tell me anything about who rescued you? How many were there?"

She wiggled her arm out from under the blankets and held up two fingers. "Robin Hood and Little John," she rasped.

Quentin nodded. "Can you describe what they look like?"

"Robin Hood is a fox." He wondered briefly if he'd have to start rounding up cute guys as suspects. "Little John is a bear." Or, perhaps he could just blame Disney.

"Did they say anything? We'd really like to find them. They're heroes for rescuing you; we'd like to give them a medal." The woman from Child Advocacy shot him an evil glare.

Crystal looked solemnly at him. Then she said, "You're the Sheriff of Nottingham. I won't help you catch them."

Lance shot the advocate an evil glare, but she just smirked.

===#===

_Queen Mansion_

"_Crystal Thompson was returned to her family last night. Saved by 'Robin Hood,'_" the news channel talking head reported with a faint grin.

He was replaced by footage of Crystal and her mother, hugging. "_We're just glad our little girl is safe!_" Brenda Thompson said to the microphones. Leonard, standing just behind his wife and child, seemed overcome with emotion and turned quickly away.

The newscaster returned. "_Robin Hood, or the Starling City Vigilante? Police are refusing to speculate on this case, and the identity of the kidnappers is still unknown._"

"Come on, man," Diggle said to Oliver. "That has to bring a smile to your face."

A faint smile did touch the young man's lips. "Yeah... we did good. I just wish we had a lead on who did this." The light faded from his expression as his thoughts turned to the unfinished business.

"Don't spoil the mood," Diggle told him. "The police will figure it out. If Felicity were here, she'd be over the moon." As soon as the words came out of his mouth, he wished he'd bitten his tongue. He'd been trying to raise Oliver's spirits, not bring them down further.

"Soon, Diggle." Oliver looked towards the window, his eyes narrowing. "This has gone on long enough."

===#===

_Merlyn Mansion_

Robin Hood. Malcolm had to chuckle at the reference. He picked up the morning paper, where the story had made the headlines. Now there's something that never happened with the labors of the Project. They had only ever worked quietly behind the scenes.

He flicked off the TV when they went on about Crystal being withdrawn from the beauty pageant talent show. That wasn't important. What was important was seeing a mother and child reunited.

Malcolm glanced up. A photograph of Rebecca on the mantel caught his eye. She was smiling a gentle smile, captured for eternity. But today he saw an extra tightness in her cheeks, an extra sparkle in her eye. He found himself smiling back.

He tucked the newspaper under his arm. Felicity would no doubt love to read about her boss' exploits.

===#===

_Starling City Police Department_

Eliza Stone, Major Case detective, stood in the ready room in front of the Crystal Thompson case whiteboard. Homicide was having a field day with six dead bodies to sift through. Those were down in the morgue being examined. Not for cause of death, that was pretty obvious, but for data on the angles and ranges of the arrows. The arrows themselves were in the lab, along with other odds and ends and minute clues, where the techs were poking through everything with a fine-toothed comb- or a mass spectrometer.

The Vigilante squad, headed by that sour-faced man, Lance, was waiting for... was it still called ballistics when it was arrows instead of bullets? Stone didn't know how that might help, but Lance must be desperate. He'd been on that damned case for most of a year, and the only suspect he'd managed to come up with had been laughably wrong.

She didn't feel like laughing now, because her case was shot to hell. Literally. Raoul Tinaktos, the only surviving suspect, claimed he wasn't a kidnapper, didn't know these other people, and his only 'crime' had been sitting in his car with his friend Kevin Dixon, minding his own business, when some drunk had accosted him and knocked him out. So far, Major Case couldn't connect him with any of the others. How ironic it would be if he were telling the truth.

Jefferson came in with a styrofoam cup in each hand. He gave her one as he joined her. "You've been staring at that board long enough. Did it tell you anything yet?"

Stone blew on her coffee. "Yeah," she aid slowly, as an idea began to take shape. "All these guys are the same- your typical Glades punks with rap sheets instead of resumes." She waved a hand at the crime scene photos taped to a schematic of the barber shop. Then she pointed dead center. "Except this guy. Stanley Clayton. Everything about him is different. He's an uptown guy in a nice suit. He's got a wallet and legit ID, and no gun. He is way out of place."

Jefferson grabbed a file and flipped through the notes in it. "Clayton works at the same law firm as Leonard Thompson."

"I wonder if they knew each other." Stone tapped her chin. Whoever had pulled off the kidnapping knew the Thompsons and their residence very well. They'd left no clues, no traces, inside or out. "It's too bad we can't ask him," she growled, cursing the vigilante or vigilantes who had interfered with the case.

"We'll have to interview his wife, his co-workers. Leonard especially."

"Let's subpoena his financial records." Stone and her partner looked knowingly at each other. "Follow the money."

===_X_===

* * *

_End Notes:_

Trivia: Elias Queen founded the "Queen of Starling City" beauty pageant in 1948 to promote his burgeoning business. Since its inception, the "Queen of Starling City" contest has grown in size and scope, and branched out to other age tiers. Queen Consolidated is still the main sponsor, offering cash prizes and scholarships, but the contest is run by an independent entity, and other businesses and interests donate prizes as well.

(Yes, I made that all up. I just never found a place to insert it into the story. Ah well.)


	23. The Gambit

**The Gambit**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: none

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

Watch what Merlyn does here. No, I haven't messed with canon.*

* * *

**The Gambit**

===#===

_The Outskirts of Starling City_

Night was falling rapidly as Oliver rode his bike along the curved access road. He caught glimpses of the city lights between the trees.

He slowed to a halt at the gate. The warehouse property was double-fenced. Large signs gave dire warnings of possible death by electrocution. Whatever Merlyn was keeping here, he wanted it secure.

Oliver removed his helmet as the gate guard flashed his light on his face. "I'm Oliver Queen. Mr. Merlyn is expecting me."

"Can I see your ID, Mr. Queen?"

_My face isn't famous enough?_ He dug out his wallet. He supposed his fifteen minutes of fame was over, and it was much better for him not to be a notorious figure any more.

"Thank you, sir. Go on through."

The gate trundled open, and Oliver had time to pocket his wallet and re-don his helmet. He glided forward on the bike and waited again for the gate behind him to close and the one in front of him to open. Could this be where Merlyn was keeping Felicity?

If so... why bring Oliver here, now? His stomach tightened with dread.

He took the bike up to the flood-lit apron of the warehouse. He parked near the sleek, dark limousine that was waiting there. He dismounted and hooked his helmet on the handlebars. A moment later, Mr. Merlyn joined him.

"What is it you wanted to show me?" Oliver asked him.

"Please, come around the side." Merlyn gestured and set off around the corner of the massive building. It almost looked like an airplane hangar, with two huge front doors. There was a normal door a few yards along the side wall. Merlyn swiped a card in the high security lock and punched in a seven-digit code. He made no move to conceal it from Oliver, who noted it for future reference.

The magnetic seal clunked open. Merlyn pulled at the heavy door and stepped inside. Oliver followed him into the darkened interior, his nerves drawn tight. He had to bite down on the urge to snap Merlyn's arm when the man put it out to stop him.

"I don't want this to come as too much of a shock," Merlyn said. "Your mother had 'The Queen's Gambit' salvaged." He removed his arm and went to flip the light switch.

The dim, shadowy hulks within the vaulted interior became visible as overhead lamps flickered on. Oliver stepped forward without realizing he'd even moved. The rear half of the yacht towered over him crookedly, leaning to one side as it rested on the ground instead of lying flat in the water. The streaked letters proclaimed 'THE QUEEN'S GAMBIT.'

A smell of old sea water rolled over Oliver, and in a sudden flash of light, he was there.

He didn't know what was happening; there was no time for thought. The room was tipped crazily and small items flew into the cabin wall. Oliver landed across an armchair, the wind knocked from his lungs. There was an earth-rending _CRACK_, and water swirled into the cabin, bringing more of the salt-and-seaweed smell.

"Oliver!"

"Sarah!"

She reached for him, and he for her, but something- something huge and implacable- had grabbed her. It dragged her down under the rising water, and she was gone. "_Sarah!_"

The yacht cracked and buckled. It was as if a sea monster had attacked and was dragging it under. Oliver screamed as the cabin shuddered and went dark, and water closed over his head.

Someone was calling his name. The water muffled it. Oliver thrashed, fought against the invisible force sucking him down. He clawed at the water, trying to climb out.

His head broke free momentarily. He flailed, but there was nothing to hold on to, nothing to hold him up. The water pushed his head down.

"Oliver!"

His father's voice rang, strangely distorted. Oliver gasped, air, not water. "Dad!"

"Oliver! Oliver, you're safe." Hands reached to pull him from the ocean's embrace. He clutched at them. "Oliver? _Oliver!_"

He snapped back to the warehouse, his hands clenched on Merlyn's forearms like talons. The man was looking into his face with concern. "You're safe. You're home, in Starling City." Malcolm's eyes sought his. "Oliver? Look at me."

Oliver blinked and focused. He opened his fists and released Merlyn. His breathing was ragged, and his throat hurt.

"You've had a flashback," Merlyn told him gently. "Are you all right?"

He took a breath, held it, controlled his body. "Yeah." His voice was still ragged. He tensed to keep from trembling.

"I'm sorry," Merlyn said, his eyes filled with pain. "I didn't know it would affect you that strongly."

Oliver clamped down harder on his emotions, encased them in ice. "Why did you want me to see this?" he asked tightly.

Merlyn didn't answer right away. He beckoned for Oliver to follow, then led him to a long table beside the wreckage. Upon it were various chunks of electronics, wire casings, some mechanical bits in various stages of destruction. Was it part of the engine? No.

"This is what's left of an explosive device," Merlyn confirmed his suspicions. He picked up a binder from the table and flipped it open. "You'll want to have your people confirm it, I expect; but from the serial numbers that could be recovered, my investigation team traced these sources." He turned the binder so Oliver could see the list. "These are subsidiaries of a handful of shell corporations that belong to a man named Frank Chen, the CEO of Sanchen Enterprises."

Oliver frowned. Frank Chen? What did he have to do with Robert Queen? Merlyn's next words brought everything into focus.

"Frank was one of the members of our group. A partner in the Undertaking."

Oliver's eyes snapped to him. "Where is he?" he grated. He hadn't done it consciously, but his voice deepened as he accessed the hunting instincts of the Vigilante.

"I killed him," Merlyn said coldly. He set the binder down and picked up another folder. "Your mother traced the money that was used to pay for the attempt on my life." He handed it to Oliver. "You'll see some of the same names, the same shell corporations. Frank Chen killed your father, and he tried to kill me."

"But why?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure. He may have tried to seize control of the Undertaking by removing the leaders of our group." Merlyn's voice grew darker. "I do not tolerate betrayal."

Oliver stared at the papers in front of him, trying to sort out his feelings. Here was proof positive that his father had been murdered, that someone had been responsible for his five-year sentence to Purgatory. That didn't surprise him, but he'd expected it to be Merlyn, the man- the murderer- next to him. Not this other player he'd never known. And he'd been sure it had been his mother who put the hit on Merlyn. Who was Frank Chen? If Oliver saw him, he might be able to recognize the face of one of his dad's business associates, but the name meant nothing to him.

And just how many other shadow figures made up this group Merlyn and his father had gathered? There could be an army of ghosts. And none of them would appear anywhere on the list.

"I want to double check this," he said slowly.

"Of course." Merlyn produced a keycard for him, and told him the code again. "I'll tell the guards to add you to the access list."

Oliver nodded.

"I have a benefit dinner to attend, but feel free to take your time." Merlyn started to go, then stopped. "Oliver, I'm sorry; for what happened to your father, and to you," he said haltingly. "I miss him. I just wish... well, I wish things could have gone differently." He left before Oliver could say anything in reply. The young man could only stare after him, wondering at the hint of emotion that had uncharacteristically choked that voice.

===#===

_Queen Mansion_

Oliver shed his leather jacket. "Mom?" The large house was eerily silent, the servants done for the day. Diggle was off to have dinner with Carly and his nephew. Thea had gone out, or at least Oliver hoped. He found his mother in the study. "Mom, I need to talk to you."

Moira sat on the couch, unwinding with a book. "What is it?" She sat up straighter as he made a circuit of the room, closing the doors for privacy.

He returned to the couch and perched beside her. "You told me... that Malcolm Merlyn blackmailed Dad, after that incident at the steel mill."

"Yes."

"Did Dad tell you that?"

"No. Back then, your father tried to keep that type of business away from me."

"Did you find any threatening letters? Or overhear anything about the blackmail?"

She shook her head. "No, Malcolm was very careful. Why?"

"How did you find out about it?"

"Well, it was obvious. Robert always supported Malcolm's schemes. I thought they were friends, partners... but after Robert told me about that incident, it became clear what was really going on."

"And after Dad was killed...?" he ventured carefully.

"Malcolm brought me into the group, where I could take up where Robert had left off." She crossed her arms, rubbing her elbows as if she felt a chill.

This had been gnawing at Oliver. Why were Malcolm's and his mother's versions of this story so different? At first, he'd thought it was because Merlyn was lying to him. Now, he wasn't so sure. "Mom, what did Malcolm Merlyn say to you?"

"What do you mean?" Her eyes searched his face. He could see the discomfort in them.

"You said he blackmailed you, threatened you. Did... did he ever actually come out and say he would hurt you or Thea?"

"Of course not! That's not his style."

Oliver bit his lip. Could she just be completely mistaken? How could this have gone on for so many years?

"He's a master of subtle hints," Moira insisted.

"Who is Frank Chen?" he asked suddenly.

The change of direction seemed to throw her off balance a moment. "He... was an associate of your father's."

"He was part of this group?"

"Yes."

"Who else is in this group?"

Her voice took on a stronger tone. "Oliver, these are very dangerous people. You're not thinking of going against them?"

"The less I know about them, the more dangerous they are to me."

"I can't." She drew back, closing herself off.

"Mom!"

"These people are rich and powerful enough to make you disappear," she said harshly. "They could make us all vanish as if the Earth has swallowed us up." Fear tinged the strength of her voice, reflected in her eyes.

"If I knew who they were, I could avoid them."

She shook hear head. "Oliver, just... whatever you and Malcolm are doing... Don't cross him."

"I won't. But if we want to be free of him..." He looked into her eyes, testing the waters.

Quietly she asked, "Do you think you can beat him?"

"No." Slowly, he shook his head. "No, but..." Did he need to? "Malcolm said Frank Chen tried to kill him. What if there are others in the group with the same idea?"

"They're all loyal to Malcolm. Trust me, if any of them had any doubts, I'd know about it."

"Did you know Chen was going to hire a hitman? Did you have a hand in that?"

She bit her lip. "No."

"No," he said, almost before she'd answered. "No, you couldn't have. He still had Walter. You'd never risk his life."

She looked at the floor, hugging herself even tighter. Oliver rubbed her arm. "Mom, I'm sorry. But I need to understand what is going on."

"It's all right."

"You knew, didn't you? You knew that he was going to take Walter?" She didn't answer or look up. He squeezed her arm reassuringly. "I'm not accusing you of anything."

"Yes. Yes, I knew."

"Mom, why? Why didn't you stop it?"

"I couldn't, Oliver!" She looked up into his face, guilt and fear painted upon her expression. "I had to let him take Walter. The only other alternative was to let him kill him." Her head dropped again.

"It's all right." He rubbed her arm again. "I understand." He pulled her into a comforting embrace.

"I only wish Walter could understand."

"You did what you had to."

===#===

Later, Moira sat alone in her room, her book lying forgotten as her mind traveled down its own dark roads. She emptied her glass of scotch and soda again and set it down. She put a hand across her eyes, but she couldn't stem the tears. _I'm so sorry, Frank._ When she looked down, she could still see his blood on her hands. She'd used him, and then thrown him to the lions when their plan had failed. God, she hadn't wanted to, but it had been in her mind from the outset. She needed to keep Malcolm Merlyn's wrath away from herself and her family. Hadn't they lost enough?

===_X_===

* * *

_End Notes:_

(*) Okay, technically, Malcolm told Moira to destroy the remains of the yacht. She just hasn't gotten around to it yet... :X


	24. Broken Faith

**Broken Faith**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: a bit

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

Resolutions to a few plot threads.

* * *

**Broken Faith**

===#===

_Verdant Basement_

The TV anchorman's voice rang hollowly in the underground space. "_In a shocking turn of events, police arrested today Brenda and Leonard Thompson, in connection with the kidnapping of their own daughter, Crystal Thompson. Seven-year-old Crystal was abducted from her home last week, then rescued by the Starling City Vigilante, only to be returned to the very people who orchestrated her disappearance. Police authorities have ruled out child prostitution and trafficking, saying that the motive behind this crime centered on the Starling City Little Princess Pageant. Lorraine Waterford, director of the pageant, was nearly speechless._"

The view cut to the washed-out, over-lit face of Waterford. "_I-I-I'm shocked... I... can't... I'm shocked and horrified._"

"_Detractors of child beauty pageants have used this opportunity to once again question the validity and morality of these types of contests. Meanwhile, Crystal Thompson has been removed from custody of her parents by child services..._"

Diggle could only stare at the newsfeed, his jaw hanging slightly open. He turned to look at Oliver.

The bright image reflected flatly in the young man's eyes. His face was impassive. The only clue to his emotion was the slow clenching of his jaw. He looked away, and his eyes went dark. He rolled his chair to the other workstation and stared at a screen of emails.

Diggle opened his mouth to say something, but only released a slow breath. He didn't need to say anything. Oliver was already thinking of the same platitudes. Rescuing the girl from those men was all that mattered. Without us, she would have spent another night alone and afraid, missing her own bed, her own home. They'd done a good thing.

It wasn't their fault it had all gone to hell.

Diggle was sure those thoughts were no comfort to Oliver, either.

===#===

_A Private Holding Facility_

Felicity paced in agitation. It was Tuesday by her computer calendar. _Be prepared._ Tonight, Oliver was going to try to rescue her.

No, not 'try.' Do. Or do not. There is no try.

She didn't want to appear nervous, so she forced herself to sit down and fold her hands in her lap. _There's no place like home._ To sleep in her own bed, with no cameras watching. She entwined her fingers and twisted them, almost painfully. How could she sleep soundly, knowing that Mr. Merlyn's Dark Archer would be hunting her down? Could Oliver hold him off?

And what if Oliver failed? Of he broke the deal, if Mr. Merlyn found out, then he'd order his assassin to kill her. Or do something worse. She leapt out of the chair as if stung by fire ants. She paced again, chewing at her ragged nails. She had to stop Oliver, but how?

She'd experimented with the limited wireless access and ways to get around the email blocks. Mr. Merlyn had given her a stern admonition and taken her tablet away for one day.

She didn't try again.

Her musings were interrupted by the intercom. "_Felicity? It's Malcolm Merlyn. May I come in?_"

She'd been expecting him, of course, but she jumped all the same. She brushed her hands down her arms, not so much to smooth her blouse as to try to comfort herself with the contact. "Yes, of course," she said. "Please do."

It was sad, but she'd come to look forward to these little chats. It was the only human interaction she had. She'd thought herself a true geek, able to bury herself in her computer for days on end, more comfortable with emails and IMs than with face-to-face speech. But no. Faced with four institutional walls and unending silence, she found she craved a little human contact.

Mr. Merlyn came in, his briefcase in his left hand. Felicity wondered if that meant goodies- and quickly squelched that thought. _Dammit, you're not a three-year-old who can be bribed with sweets!_ He wore a dark charcoal suit today, with a black tie and pocket kerchief accented with neon pink and turquoise. It caught Felicity's eye.

"That's an interesting necktie design."

He raised his brows. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult," he said lightly.

"No, it's- I like it. It's attractive. I mean-" God, she did not just say that!- "to the eye. It's... nice."

"Thank you."

Felicity half expected him to demure and say his wife had picked it out, but then she remembered: his wife was dead. "Would you like to sit down?" she offered awkwardly. She'd found it easier to let him have the chair while she sat on the edge of the bed, instead of having him loom over her. He politely thanked her again as they took their seats. He set the briefcase down on the floor beside the chair.

She bit her lip. "Is something wrong?" Something seemed off. She couldn't tell what; the man looked the same cold and collected as he always did. Yet something about his eyes...

"It's nothing." He didn't look at her.

"Is it Oliver? Is he hurt? Or Mr. Diggle?"

"No," he smoothly reassured her. "They're fine."

Felicity didn't feel reassured. Who knows what those boys were doing out there! Without her to bring some levelheadedness to their schemes? They'd end up shot again! And whose car would they crawl into? Who would throw in the towel and dial 911?

She didn't realize she was bouncing her knee up and down in that way she usually found so spastically annoying, until Mr. Merlyn leaned forward and placed a firm hand over hers where they were clenched in her lap. "Felicity." She froze. It was the first time he'd ever actually touched her. His hand was cool and dry. "They're _fine_," he reiterated, looking her in the eye.

He removed his hand and leaned back, breaking eye contact, and she relaxed. "But... there is something? I didn't mean to pry! If it's personal."

He grimaced slightly. "I was debating against telling you, but I suppose you'll find out soon enough. It's about the Crystal Thompson kidnapping."

"Did they find the kidnappers? Did they escape? Do they need the Arrow of Justice between the eyes or something?"

He blinked at her. "Felicity, I didn't know you were so bloodthirsty."

"What? No- I..." She self-consciously pushed her glasses more firmly onto her face. "It's just... I mean, kidnapping a little girl! That's a heinous crime. Taking her from her home, her family, locking her up, taking away her freedom..."

"And you're in a unique position to sympathize with that."

"Uhh..." Her eyes darted around at the cinderblock walls, the ceiling, the heavy door. "That's not what I meant! I mean..."

"It's all right. I understand." He smiled faintly at her, but it faded quickly. "No, the police found the kidnappers. They didn't need to look far- it was her parents."

"What?" She blinked. The information processed through the Rube Goldberg machine of her mind. "Her parents?" Why would they need to kidnap their own daughter?

"Crystal was in that... beauty contest." Felicity wondered briefly what adjective he'd censored out of that sentence. "She has a cold, and they were worried she couldn't sing in the talent contest this weekend." His voice hardened. "So instead of losing, they thought it best if she'd be kidnapped and unable to attend, and next weekend she'd get a landslide of sympathy votes in the finals."

She was truly flabbergasted. She didn't often get to use that word in reference to herself, but it was never more apropos than now. "That's horrible! And these people thought that was actually a viable, rational plan? They need some serious therapy!"

"The quintessence of humanity," he said bitterly.

"What happened to the little girl?"

"She's with child services for now."

"Is she going to end up in foster care?"

"I don't think so. She may have relatives in Coast City that can take her."

"It's all just so stupid," Felicity said.

"I have to agree."

"How is Oliver taking it?" That poor guy. After that brilliant rescue, now this.

"Actually, I don't know. I haven't spoken to him today." He tilted his head. "Do you want to call him?"

Felicity blinked. "Can I?" Her heart rate accelerated again. She could tell him not to come!

"I don't know why I didn't think of this earlier," he said, half to himself. "If you call him, he won't have time to run a trace. Yes, we can do that." He looked at her. "I'll have to set it up. How about tomorrow?"

Her heart sank. Tomorrow would be too late.

"Is that a problem?"

"What? No!" _Geeze, Felicity, harness your face! Or would that be a bridle?_ "That's fine." She forced a smile.

"Good. I'll leave the phone with the guards. Then you can call him at any time. Within reason, of course." He smiled. A new privilege. Don't abuse it.

"Of course." She smiled back in the same manner. "Oh! Your manuscript is done." She nodded at the sheaf of papers on the desk.

"Thank you, Felicity."

"It's the first time I've ever actually created a manuscript." She frowned to herself. "Probably the last, too. But if I ever need it on my resume..."

Mr. Merlyn nodded and collected the sheaf of papers. He put them in his briefcase.

"There may be one or two typos," she confessed. "I corrected most of them. But there were some... well... it seemed kinda a waste to type the whole page all over again. Plus, I could have made _more_ typos than there were before..."

"I'm sure it's fine. Oliver will have no trouble understanding it, I expect."

She nodded. "Actually, um... I was curious about something in the manuscript. If you don't mind me asking?"

She held her breath as he studied her a moment. "You know, Felicity, we are going to be working together." She gulped. Wow, now that was something she couldn't picture. "I don't mind sharing my knowledge and experience with you. What's your question?"

His openness reassured her. "Well, about that mayoral candidate? Grossman, I think his name was? It never said what happened to him." That particular entry had been cut off in the middle, probably one of the missing pieces Mr. Merlyn had alluded to when he gave it to her. The parts mixed with personal information.

He tilted his head back, searching through his memories. "Oh! Carl Grossberg. We had some difficulty trying to contain him." He frowned. "We lost one of the members of our group."

"He killed someone?"

Malcolm shook his head. "There are many ways to destroy a person. A family." He looked at the floor, his expression haunted.

"What happened to Grossberg? Is he dead?"

"No." He steadied his composure. "He moved out of Starling City, though. Went down south, or somewhere in the midwest, I think."

"You don't keep track of these people, nationwide?"

"What, like some Justice League of America?" He smiled in amusement. "No, we are a small group, and we focus our efforts in our local area. Once Grossberg left Starling City, he was no longer our problem. Don't expect me to vote for him, though, if he runs for president."

Felicity chuckled lightly. She was finding it easier to talk to Mr. Merlyn. She definitely approved of his group's bloodless handling of untouchable criminal elements. If only all corporations were so dedicated to actively helping their communities. She couldn't understand why they'd gone from that to a plan that involved killing all those people in the Glades.

She didn't feel comfortable enough to outright ask him. He might take that as a sign she still opposed him. Which, okay, she did, on principle at least, but she was trying to convince him she was harmless, so he'd let her go home.

Which brought her to another quandary. Should she escape tonight with Oliver? Or should she warn Malcolm Merlyn about the attempt? If he knew about it, he could kill Oliver. Or bring Oliver to heel by killing her, or doing something a little less fatal but no less permanent. But all that could happen anyway, if Oliver failed.

Her stomach churned with fear and indecision. She kept looking at the computer clock, counting down the hours and minutes until it would be too late.

"Well," Mr. Merlyn said, noticing her inattention. "I should get going. Was there anything else for today?"

She shook her head.

"All right, then." He stood and gave her a smile as he grabbed his briefcase. "Goodnight, Felicity."

"Goodnight."

_Tell him tell him tell him!_

_What's he going to DO!?_

The bolts clanged back and the heavy door squeaked open on its iron hinges.

"Wait!"

He turned back, a look of mild concern on his face. "Yes?"

Felicity wasn't sure where her mouth was going with this. "I need to tell you something... but promise me you won't hurt anybody."

His brows lowered in deeper concern. "What is it?"

She twined her fingers together in impossible knots. Then she darted to the desk and started flipping through her pile of printouts. She hadn't hidden the secret message too secretively, that would have been too much of a tip-off. She pulled out the trivia game sheet and held it towards him.

He set down the briefcase and came back, still frowning in puzzlement. He took the sheet and scanned over it. "What's this?"

"It's a message, from Oliver. It's, well, a code. I-I think he means to try to rescue me." She gulped. "Tonight." His frown grew darker. "Don't be angry!" she squeaked. "Just... just talk to hm. Tell him not to come- tell him I'm fine!" She started shaking. "Nobody has to get hurt!"

"Whoa, whoa; easy, Felicity." He cleared his expression and looked into her eyes. "You were right to bring this to my attention. An assault on this facility would have resulted in a number of deaths."

Felicity shivered, not the least for imagining one of them could have been her, or Oliver. "Y-You'll t-t-talk to him?" She blinked back tears of stress. Or tried to. It only made them spill over.

"Don't worry. I'll straighten this all out."

"Without hurting him?"

"I give you my word."

"And I can call him tomorrow?"

Her breath hitched as he considered a moment. "Actually, I think it's high time you went home. You can see him tomorrow."

"I can?" Home! Felicity threw her arms around him. "Oh, thank you! Thank you thank you!"

===#===

Malcolm tensed as the young woman flung herself at him and started crying on his chest. Of course, he'd meant to play on her Stockholm Syndrome, but he hadn't expected... well, this. Awkwardly, he put one arm around her shoulders and patted her. "There, there. Everything is going to be fine."

"You mean it? You really mean it? I can go home?"

"Of course, Felicity."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"Come on, now." Gently, he pried her off and held her by the shoulders, a bit awkwardly with the paper still dangling from his hand. "I think you've earned it, don't you?"

She nodded and wiped her cheeks, bumping her glasses up with her fingertips to reach her eyes.

"Good girl. Now I'll see you tomorrow, around lunchtime, okay?" She nodded again, still sniffling. "You be ready. I'll be here."

She hugged herself, and he took the paper and his briefcase out into the hall. The mercenary leader Sandra closed and secured the door, then looked up at him expectantly.

"Make sure your people stay on their toes tonight," he admonished.

"Yes, sir." She tilted her head. "You expecting trouble?"

"Sandra, you should _always_ expect trouble." Malcolm set the briefcase on the guard station desk. He looked over the paper Felicity had given him. _Now that's a fine piece of work._ He smiled faintly as he slipped it on top of the manuscript and snapped the briefcase closed.

===_X_===

* * *

End Notes:

"I always think everything is a trap. That's why I'm still alive." If Malcolm Merlyn said this line instead of Prince Humperdinck, it would be SO much cooler! ;P

2,000 Bloodsong points if you know where Carl Grossberg comes from. I haven't been hiding quotes in this story (Felicity knows them all, anyway), but when I needed a name for a creepy politician... yes, I turned to _Max Headroom_. :)


	25. Coming Home

**Coming Home**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

It's all coming together, now! :)

Props to the Scorpions fans! Uh, and the harpsichord & string fans, but I couldn't find the name of the piece that I was trying to describe, or the CD I have with it on there. Now it will drive me nuts.

* * *

**Coming Home**

===#===

_Club Verdant_

Oliver took the steps two at a time, up to his office. Diggle was in there, starting up the coffee maker in preparation for a long night. He looked around. "Aren't you supposed to be leaving for your dinner with Laurel?"

"Merlyn just called me," Oliver blurted. His bodyguard quirked a brow. "He's releasing Felicity tomorrow."

"Just like that?"

Oliver felt the same surprise. He shrugged.

Diggle tossed down the stack of filters he was trying to separate and turned to face Oliver fully. A rare smile crept onto his face. "This is great news! Now we can finally move forward in the search for the Markov device. Take Merlyn down."

"I don't think so."

"What do you mean you don't think so? I thought the only reason you agreed to partner up with this guy is because he had you over a barrel."

"I did, but..."

Diggle frowned. "Look man, you're the last person I would ever accuse of being a coward. But you can't get entrenched in your comfort zone. Oliver, you need to fight this guy."

"No, I don't." He'd been so wrong about Malcolm Merlyn. He hadn't murdered Oliver's father. Oliver didn't want to discredit his mother, but it was entirely possible it was her own fear and paranoia that had created the monster she thought Merlyn to be.

"Oliver, that's your fear talking."

"No, it isn't!" Why was Diggle so stubborn? "This is me, being rational, and considering the idea that we may have been wrong. Malcolm Merlyn is not the man we thought he was."

"Really? Because I think he's still the same guy with the plan to nuke the Glades unless we stop him."

"That plan is on hold." How many times did they have to go over this?

"You seriously believe that?"

"This discussion is over." He was going to have to wind down before he saw Laurel.

"We'll see what Felicity has to say on the subject," Diggle agreed darkly. "But just remember who it is that kidnapped her and threatened to kill her." Oliver was opening the door, but Diggle wasn't finished. "Ask yourself this: would you have kidnapped Tommy, and threatened to harm him if you wanted to convince Merlyn that he was wrong and you were right?"

Oliver scraped his teeth over his lip. He took a breath to center himself and said, "He said he'd bring Felicity by around noon. Make sure I'm up in time to be here." He pushed out the door without waiting for a response, but before it closed, he could hear Diggle's cold reply.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Queen."

===#===

_A Private Holding Facility_

Felicity packed her things in the carryall the guards had dropped off. With a strange sense of a sleepwalker awakening, she realized they were indeed her things. Her clothes, her face wash, her shampoo. They must have taken them from her apartment. She didn't know how she felt about that - angry at the intrusion, or grateful to have the comforts of home. The jury was still out. Wait until she saw the state her apartment was in. If they'd left things strewn about... she would be righteously peeved!

Finally, Mr. Merlyn appeared. Felicity held her breath, overwhelmed with the fear that he'd changed his mind, that his talk with Oliver had ended in a fight or something that would come back on her. But no. With an apologetic smile, the businessman produced the execut- er, the kidnapping hood.

She submitted to having it put on. It brought back the memory of that night, her kidnapping, and she was so glad that tall, dark, and hooded figure was not here. A guard took her carryall, and Mr. Merlyn took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. "Don't worry," he said softly; "I won't let you fall."

She clasped her right hand with her left and leaned slightly on his own like... well, like a blind date. Literally. He was surprisingly solid under the jacket, and wow, that was some really nice cologne. Probably French. Maybe Italian. Hideously expensive.

Mr. Merlyn put his hand over hers to steady her, and set out. Blind and leaning on him as she was, she could feel every subtle shift of his weight and motion. She almost didn't need his murmured instructions to navigate the turns and stairs. It was like a waltz; she followed his lead naturally. She was sure she was blushing.

The hood didn't completely block her vision. It was just sheer enough that she could make out blobs of light and dark. It helped her navigate her way into the back of the limousine, Mr. Merlyn's hand to guide her and keep her from bumping her head.

She sank into the plush leather seat and folded her hands in her lap, repressing the urge to fiddle with the hood. The door closed with a quiet whump, hermetically sealing the car like the cabin of a commercial airliner, or a space capsule. The limo interior smelled of new leather.

The other door opened, and Mr. Merlyn got in. Her ears could feel the change in 'cabin pressure' as the door closed and cut off all external sound. Soundproof, climate-controlled - it was probably bulletproof, too. She couldn't even tell if the engine was running. This was some serious class. She imagined this might be what it would feel like if she'd dated a rich boy like Oliver at the prom, whisked away in a personal limo. Of course, probably not with a hood over her head. Unless it was a really kinky prom. The kind with black silk hoods and fur-lined cuffs. _Whoa, Felicity! Get your mind out of the gutter!_ She gulped and was once more thankful that the hood hid her blush.

"Well, let's go," Mr. Merlyn said.

Felicity felt the car move, just a gentle nudge. She still didn't hear the engines, but there was a faint whir of fans, keeping the air of the space capsule fresh. Then the bright, brassy tones of a harpsichord filled the air, dripping slowly over her, washing the tension right out of her body. A string quartet joined in the stately progression of notes, gliding smoothly through the movement, like skaters on ice. She didn't usually care for classical, but it suited the situation. She now felt like a fairytale princess riding in a magical coach.

After the music faded to a close, Mr. Merlyn told her she could take the hood off. She shook herself out of the trance and took it off, then smoothed her hair down. She glanced out the window, casually; they were in the city.

"Would you like some water?" he asked as another cello piece began.

"Please."

"Plain or sparkling?"

Ooh. "Sparkling."

He closed the dossier he'd been reading, then reached forward to the mini-fridge and produced a bottle of Perrier.

"Thank you." Felicity made note that if she ever got kidnapped, to make sure it was by some filthy rich millionaire. At least she'd be abducted in style!

"Straw?" Malcolm offered.

"Don't mind if I do." She took it. "Do you have any Grey Poupon?"

He laughed. "There _might_ be some left, but I am sure that we're out of Ball Park Franks."

"Oh, well, I'll have to deduct a star for that, I'm afraid," she teased.

"Felicity." He turned in the seat to face her, his expression becoming solemn. "I am sorry about all this. I'm sorry things had to go this way."

She looked down, unsure of what to say. 'That's alright' wasn't even an option, and 'Things _didn't_ have to go this way' would just be impolitic. So she just nodded in acknowledgement and sipped her sparkling water. He returned to his dossier.

The limo turned a corner and Felicity could see they were only a few minutes away from the club. She tingled in anticipation.

===#===

The limousine pulled smoothly up to the curb. Felicity noticed her carryall on the floor in front of her seat. She bent to grab it.

"Would you take this to Oliver for me, please?" Malcolm gave her the dossier.

She realized it was the manuscript, bound into a folder. "You're not coming in?"

He looked past her, out the tinted window, towards the club entrance. "No, it's better if I don't." He looked to her. "Don't worry, I told them to expect you."

Then the limo door opened, and Felicity got out. She blinked at the uniformed driver, whom she recognized as one of the guards at... wherever it was. "Thank you," she said automatically. The woman nodded and waited for her to clear the door before closing it.

Felicity walked towards the entrance, her pulse loud in her ears. She hoped she didn't wake up. This was rather sedate for one of her homecoming dreams, but you never knew. Or worse, this was some kind of crazy mind trick. She turned to look back towards the limo, but it was already pulling away.

She puffed out her cheeks with a breath, and forged ahead into the club.

===#===

Felicity raced headlong down the stairs, her heart in her mouth, still fearing some trick, some twist, some cruel joke. Oliver ran over to meet her at the bottom, calling her name, and she jumped him. Well, you know, _on_ him, into his arms, and it's a good thing he's such a buff guy, or she might have flattened him with her enthusiasm. He spun around while she clung to him, her feet not touching the ground, and the stuff she was carrying scattered who knows where.

Oliver set her down gently but firmly, though his hands lingered on her arms. John came over, now that there was no danger of being kicked. With a big warm smile he said, "We're glad you're safe."

"Me, too!" She beamed at him.

"Felicity," Oliver said, more seriously. "Did he hurt you?" She shook her head, but he pressed. "Did he - or any of his people - do anything to you?"

Her mind went back to that dark basement. _We don't need to play these games. You know how this works. If you cooperate, you earn privileges. Eventually, you earn your freedom. If you resist, if you rebel, if you try to escape... you lose privileges._ She shivered, recalling the isolation, the humiliation, the black nightmares.

"_Felicity._" Oliver shook her gently, his calloused hands gripping her. "You don't have to tell me anything else," he said softly, his grey eyes steady on her. "Just yes or no. Do I need to go after him?"

She realized that if anybody messed with Felicity Smoak, the predator that had returned from the wilds of that island would be there to defend her. "No," she managed. "No, it was all... mostly... civilized."

Oliver's look softened, his grip relaxed; he no longer looked about to pounce.

Tears welled up in Felicity's eyes. He'd do anything and everything in his power to keep her safe. And she'd betrayed him. "I'm sorry!" She collapsed against his chest, the tears flowing over.

"What? Why?"

"I told him," she sobbed. "I told him about the message. I'm so sorry; I was afraid you'd get hurt; I just didn't want that to happen."

He gripped her arms and pushed her back so he could look down into her eyes. "Told him what?"

"About the rescue plan!"

Oliver looked over at Diggle, his brow creased in confusion. Felicity followed his glance, but John's look was as blank as Oliver's.

"You didn't try to rescue me?" And that hurt. It was the safe thing to do, the smart thing, but dammit, it still hurt.

He saw the look in her eyes, and guilt painted his face. "I'm sorry, Felicity. It just wasn't safe-"

"I know!" It wasn't his fault; she mustn't blame him. Then the bottom dropped out of her stomach. "Oh, my God." Her knees started shaking, threatening to drop her right on the floor. Oliver guided her around, and she landed in a chair. "It was him. Oh, my God." Realizations poured in faster than she could process them.

Oliver sat in the chair next to hers, still anchoring her with his hand on her arm, for which she was grateful. John came over, hovering in concern. "Just breathe," he reminded her. "What message?"

"It was in the emails. They were printed out, so they didn't have headers, so I couldn't authenticate the sender - augh!" She reared back and slapped her forehead. "I'm so stupid!" Oliver started to gently remonstrate with her, but she rode roughshod right over that. "He planted that message and... oh my God, that's why he let me go! It was a test! And I fell for it!" This time, she slapped both hands to her face and left them there. She shoved her glasses up onto her brow. "He let me go because I betrayed you."

"No, Felicity, you didn't," Oliver insisted.

John added, "You did the right thing."

"No... no, I didn't."

"All that matters is you're home now," said Oliver.

She shook her head; they didn't understand. If she had betrayed her plans to Merlyn once, what was to stop her from doing it again? Well, she hadn't, _really_, but she thought she had. It felt as if she had. What if Merlyn tricked her again? "That bastard!" She started trembling.

"Whoa, easy." Oliver leaned in and rubbed her shoulder. "You're all right, now. Everything is fine." He looked up and nodded to Diggle, asked him to fetch some 'medicine.'

John returned with a shot glass full of amber liquid. Felicity took it in both hands and sipped. And then wheezed. _Whoa, good stuff._

Oliver kept rubbing her shoulder. "It's all right; it's all over."

"How do you even deal with that guy?"

"You'd have to ask my mother. She's been dealing with him for years."

"Your mom's got some stones," she blurted. "I never thought I'd say that about another woman, but she has got some serious stones." She made a little toast and took another sip of the medicine. It went down a little easier. _You can do this. Women are strong. Just like Moira Queen._ She sucked in a long breath. The alcohol hit her bloodstream and made her feel steadier. She took another sip. "At least we don't have to deal with him any more, right?" She looked at Oliver. "Well, you do, I guess. However this deal thingy works." She glanced at John, who had a concerned look on his face. "We don't. Right?" Now Oliver showed that same look. "What?"

"Felicity, Malcolm's been helping us on some of the missions."

"Yeah, he said. But, like, help how?"

"You didn't tell her?" Diggle asked Oliver.

"Tell me what?"

"I didn't think it would be a good idea," Oliver said to his bodyguard. He cut off and looked back at Felicity. "I was looking for the right time to break it to you."

Now her anxiety went into overdrive. "Break what to me?"

Oliver grimaced and John stepped up, laying it out for her. "Malcolm Merlyn is the Dark Archer. And he comes down here to go with Oliver as a backup archer."

She blinked owlishly at him. "You mean, he comes here...?" She pointed to the floor at their feet. John nodded. "And he...?" She mimed flipping a hood up over her head. John and Oliver nodded. "And you two...?" Oliver winced guiltily as she made little running legs with her fingers and added, "...And shoot people."

"Yeah."

Her face felt suddenly cold as all the blood drained from it. "Oh, my God."

"Get another shot," Oliver told John, and to her: "Just put your head down if you feel faint."

"No... not, I'm fine," she managed. She jittered her fingertips against her lips. "I'm just trying to remember how many times I called the Dark Archer a vicious, maddog lackey in front of Mr. Merlyn, and how many times I told the Dark Archer that he was just a tool for a cowardly rich bastard." Her voice ended on a squeak. She gulped the last of the medicine, and wheezed out, "He took it surprisingly well."

"Sorry," Oliver said sheepishly.

"Oh no, that's fine." Water under the bridge, right? "But I will take that other shot."

===#===

Felicity hadn't had any lunch yet, so the liquor went straight to her head. She felt much better. Perhaps too much better, but what the hell!

John picked up her bag and set it on the table, and the folder. "What's this?"

"Oh! I'm supposed to give that to you. It's the manuscript," she said. "Well, it doesn't have a name, I mean a title, so I just call it 'the manuscript.'"

"What is it, exactly?" Oliver asked, sidling up to Diggle so they could both look over it.

"Mr. Merlyn said you wanted to know about the stuff he and that group of his... which also doesn't have a name... Odd, that. Um, about what they do. Or did. So it's like part of a journal. About stuff."

Oliver took it from Diggle and flipped through the pages. "Yes, I'm very interested. Did you read this?" he asked her, looking up a moment.

"I typed it," she said proudly. "So, yes. Reading. And typing. At the same time."

John frowned at her. "I think you've had too much medicine."

"You can tell?"

Oliver shushed them. "What is this symbol here?" He turned the pages so she could see and pointed out a capital letter in parentheses.

"Oh! There weren't any names," she explained. "Like just initials in a circle. So I typed them like that. On a real typewriter," she added for Diggle's benefit.

Oliver said, "I wonder if 'F' is Frank Chen."

"Who's Frank Chen?" Diggle asked.

Oliver chewed his lip a moment. "He's the one who killed my father. And he tried to have Merlyn killed."

"How did you-?" Diggle started.

"My mother had 'The Queen's Gambit' salvaged. Merlyn showed it to me at his warehouse- Yes, Diggle, I know. But he said I could have my people double-check everything. Felicity-" he turned to her. "Can you do a trace on some serial numbers? Find the manufacturers, then trace back the owners of those companies?" He paced swiftly, almost as manic as she tended to get. "And maybe you can hack into the police database. There was some activity at one of my visitations that never got explained."

"Whoa," she said, putting her hands out. "Oliver, you know I'd love to. But I haven't even been home yet, and I haven't eaten, and I was kinda not going to start work until tomorrow."

"Oh, yeah, of course," he said abashedly. "Diggle, could you go bring the car around to take Felicity home?"

"Sure."

"I'm sorry, Felicity," Oliver said when they were alone.

"No, it's fine." She waved it off.

"No, it isn't." He looked down at his shoes. "I'm truly sorry, for everything. None of it... was fair to you. I just want you to know..." He glanced up at her. "And I _mean_ this. If you don't want to come back... If you want to go back to being an ordinary IT girl, and leave all this behind... I'll understand."

She actually thought about it for a minute.

Then she said, "Point number one: I was never an 'ordinary' IT girl." He smiled in agreement. "And Point number two..." She took a breath and paced. How to explain Point number two? "When I signed on - not that I had much of a choice - but when I did, I said I only wanted to help you find Walter. He was kind to me. And, well, of course the research I did for him is what landed him all missing and kidnapped."

She took another breath, remembering her captivity, imagining Walter in the same straits. Would he have fought? It was so futile. She shook herself. "But... when I worked for you while we tried to do that, I learned a lot about myself. I learned to stand up for what I believed in. Even against a dangerous vigilante." She smiled to take the sting out of her words. "I learned I was - wow - a heck of a lot braver than I ever imagined. Walking into a den of heavily-armed crooks, almost getting my head exploded..."

She paced the length of the work tables, looking over the row of computers, the rows of arrows. "I told Mr. Steele I hated unsolved mysteries. Well, I hate not knowing how any story ends, really. Everything I've learned... about the crime that goes on in this city, about the corruption that goes on, unchecked." She turned around to face him. "And what about the Markov device? I can't just go back to doing my mundane... stuff! Knowing all this is out there? That I could _do_ something about it?"

"Just not today, huh?" He gave her a sad, crooked smile.

"Yeah. As long as it's not today."

"If you ever change your mind... or need a break - a day off, a vacation - just say the word."

"I'm going to hold you to that," she warned. He nodded. "I mean it! I'm going to write it down! And then when I say, 'Oh-ho, no! I've had enough; I'm going to the Bahamas,' and you say-" and here, she did a whiny Oliver voice- "'But Felicity, I neeeeeed you!' I'm going to say, 'Oh no, buster! I have it in writing!'"

Finally, he chuckled. "All right, you win." He shooed her towards the door. "Now go home. And if you need anything, call me."

===#===

Felicity sat in the passenger seat, her bagged lunch of turkey sandwich and diet soda sitting in her lap. She stared out the window, just daydreaming. It was good to see a view, open sky, and people going bout their lives.

As they got closer to Felicity's apartment building, John broke the silence. "I have to tell you something. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable or upset, but..."

"But...? Well, that already makes me feel uncomfortable and upset."

John sighed. "Sorry. Just... Felicity, be careful what you say to anyone when you're at home, or on the phone."

Her spine prickled. "Why?"

"When I got home from the detention center... I dunno, I got the feeling that someone had been in my apartment."

"It's bugged?"

"Yeah."

"They bugged my apartment?" Felicity yelled. "And my phone?"

"Most likely. I'm sorry, but I had to tell you."

"Well, can't we sweep my place for bugs?"

"I don't have that kind of gear," he told her. "We can do a visual search, but we'll never know if we found them all. It's better not to tip them off. As long as we're careful-"

"What if I don't care about tipping them off? They've already been in my apartment, stealing my clothes!" Home was her sanctuary. She wanted it to be sacrosanct!

"Stealing your clothes?" John echoed, confused and understandably dubious about this pronouncement.

"They brought me my own clothes to wear," she explained. When they let her wear clothes. She slammed a lid on that thought.

"Okay, so we know they had access to your apartment," he said with calm analysis. "Merlyn also had ahold of your tablet, so you'll want to check that out as well."

He pulled into a space in front of her apartment, then got out and carried her bag upstairs for her.

She unlocked the door and went inside. She knew instantly what John had meant about the eerie feeling that people had been there. The ambience of the air felt off. Violated. John stuck around patiently while she checked behind each door and in every closet.

No one jumped out. Nothing seemed out of place. It was maddening.

She followed John to the door when it was time for him to leave. "John," she said softly as he was halfway out. He turned and she moved closer, kept her voice low. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way... because I entirely don't mean it like that, but... would you... could you... stay over tonight?" A bodyguard would feel _so_ good. Er, not in _that_ way, of course!

"Sure, Felicity. What time should I come by?"

"Uh... whatever's convenient?" She realized she didn't have a place for him to sleep. Just the couch. Ugh, she was a terrible hostess.

"How about ten? Or I can ditch Oliver earlier, if that would be better?"

"No, no. Yeah, that's good. Ten, I mean." She bit her lip. "I'm so sorry, this is stupid."

"No, it isn't." He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I'm here for you, Felicity. It'll be all right."

===_X_===


	26. House of Cards

**House of Cards**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: none

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

Not much to say that isn't a spoiler of some type. This is a real short one.

* * *

**House of Cards**

===#===

_Felicity's Apartment_

The walls reverberated with the earthquake grind of YouTube's heaviest Dub-step playlist. Felicity hoped that whoever was listening in was getting a severe headache. Especially if he preferred cellos and harpsichords.

Felicity was cleaning her apartment. Or, as she liked to call it, fumigating. She was meticulously picking up and dusting everything on her shelves, looking for surveillance devices. She hadn't found any yet. In hindsight, she should have noticed the cobwebs and dust had been far too thick to have recently been disturbed by someone planting bugs. Oh well, at least the place was getting a good cleaning. That should hold it over for a few more years.

A loud knocking came from the door, too high-pitched to be part of the music. "Finally," she breathed. Time to quit the housework for today and chow on some pizza, her favorite comfort food. She tapped the mouse on her way past the desk, to mute the music. "I'll be right there," she called. She grabbed the pizza money from the candy dish on the entry table.

She opened the door and nearly choked on her friendly smile. "What are you doing here?" she blurted.

Because there, in his 400 dollar suit in the middle class hallway, stood Malcolm Merlyn. "Felicity," he said cordially.

She bristled. "I don't believe such familiarity is appropriate, Mr. Merlyn."

He ducked his head. "My apologies, Ms. Smoak," he said in his usual level sincerity. He reached into his inner pocket. "I've brought you your check."

She took the envelope automatically when he handed it to her. She remembered quoting some outrageous fee for typing services, but hadn't really expected him to take it seriously. And between getting back to work, 'fumigating' her apartment, shopping for new locks, and waking up in the middle of the night in full-blown panic attacks that Diggle had to talk her down from, she just hadn't had time to send him an itemized bill. She glanced up and down the hall, wondering if anyone had noticed the exchange. The hall was empty, but one never knew when old Mrs. Gillis was peeping out at the goings-on.

"Thank you," Felicity managed to grind out, because her parents had been sticklers for good manners. "Don't come here again. I don't want you or any of your goons, or lackeys, or... whatever you have, snooping around here."

He looked affronted. Wounded, even. That only raised her hackles further. Before he could express any platitudes, she asked, "Did you bug my apartment?"

"There's no need for this animosity betw-"

"Your avoidance of the question indicates that the answer is 'yes.'" Hah, she had him there! He put on the expression of one trying to patiently deal with an unreasonable child. It only made her determinedly more stubborn. "Tell your spy-goons to get rid of all the surveillance."

"If I had bugged your apartment, and you hadn't just expressly forbade these 'spy-goons' from entering it, how would you even know if they had removed every last device or not?"

Oh. He had a point. Childishly, Felicity didn't care. "Need I remind you," she hissed, below the threshold of Mrs. Gillis' hearing aid, "I have enough state's evidence to put you away for life? I don't want to see you here again!"

She slammed the door in his face - or tried to. He caught it with alarming speed and leaned in. "Need I remind you, Ms. Smoak, that my IT department has a copy of the Trojan you unleashed on our systems, which traces back to the NIC address of your tablet? Do you know what the penalties are these days for corporate espionage?" His eyes glittered with malice. She gulped. He leaned in further. "All of use have our decks invested in this house of cards that Oliver and I have built - you and Mr. Diggle included. If any one of these cards should be removed, it _all_ comes crashing down."

He eased back and straightened his suit jacket. "I already apologized for everything that's happened." And that was all she was going to get, apparently. "It's time to move on." He turned and left.

Felicity closed the door and leaned her back against it. She blew out a breath and looked down at the envelope containing her check. Her first impulse was to tear it up on the spot... But curiosity got the better of her; she had to see how much it was for. She tore the envelope open and... oh. That was quite a hefty sum. She gulped again.

_It's bribe money! You can't take it!_

_No... It's only bribe money if I take it and then do what he wants. If I just do whatever I want anyway, then... I just suckered him for this money! Hah!_

The money wold buy her a lot of new security. And a new computer. One she could use to track down that Markov device. That was putting it to good use. _Not_ taking a bribe.

She jumped with a yelp, dropping the check and the wadded-up cash in her other hand, when the pizza guy knocked.

===_X_===


	27. Judas

**Judas**

_CONTENT:_

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: some

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: alluded to

Other: none

_Author's Note:_

I released this plot bunny into the wilds, but never got any return on it. Little did I know that my Brain could make it work in the plot of G&B.

Poor Tommy. The plot's punching bag. Don't worry, bud; you'll get your revenge.

* * *

**Judas**

===#===

_Starling City Midtown Police Precinct_

They left Tommy cooling his heels in the interrogation room for nearly an hour. He itched for a drink. Or at least some aspirin for this damned headache. He'd given up moping around and feeling sorry for himself; his dad was right, it didn't accomplish a thing. He was through with letting life run over him. It was time to take charge.

Finally, the door opened and Detective Lance came in. He'd always been a rugged-looking man, his wavy hair receding, his eyes pinched as if squinting to study every little detail. Since his daughter had been killed, grief and overwork had deepened the lines of his face and carved a permanent scowl. Today it looked as if he'd just bitten into a particularly rotten lemon.

"Thomas Merlyn," Lance announced, tossing a file folder on the table with a weighty slap. "What brings you here, darkening my doorstep?"

"I have information on the Vigilante."

"Do tell."

"It's Oliver Queen."

Lance huffed in annoyance. "You have any evidence to back this up?"

"I'm giving you an eye-witness account," Tommy growled. "When my father was shot, the Vigilante swooped in. He took off the hood; it was Oliver Queen, as clear as day."

"And yet, when I asked you that night why the Hood Guy seemed so philanthropic to you and your old man, you said..." He moved to the folder and flipped it open. "And I quote: 'I have no idea.'" He gave Tommy a cynical look.

"I lied." Why was this so difficult?

"Oh, you lied, huh?" Lance flipped the folder closed and paced along the other side of the table. "You knew the identity of a wanted criminal - a murderer - and you sat on it for... how many months? While how many people were getting killed?" He turned and leveled a finger at Tommy. "You realize, in the eyes of the law, that makes you an accessory."

"I know."

"You do also know that Oliver Queen has been cleared of suspicion of being the Vigilante, right?"

"Yes, at the party," Tommy said, clinging to his patience. "I know."

"I was there, and Oliver Queen was definitely not across town, busting some gun dealers and gangbangers at the time."

"He has an accomplice."

"Oh, right." The detective pressed a forefinger to his mouth as if thinking. "You know, I don't recall seeing you there that evening."

Tommy gaped. "I hooked up with- You're not seriously suggesting-?"

"What? That you, Oliver Queen's loyal wingman, would play dress-up to keep his buddy out of jail?" His thick eyebrows rose up. "Naah." He never dripped sarcasm; his wit was always bone dry.

The thought that Tommy could single-handedly beat up a bunch of criminals was ludicrous. Laurel had to save him from getting roughed up by a sleazy nightclub owner.

"This woman you were allegedly with," Lance asked pointedly; "She got a name? Can she corroborate your story, or was she unconscious at the time?"

Tommy clenched his teeth. "I'm really getting tired of your allegations-"

"Right, right. No convictions, no foul; is that it?"

"We were discussing the Vigilante, not me."

"Okay, so, Oliver Queen. Your best buddy who you've been covering for at _least_ since February. But now you came here to turn in your pal." He leaned on the edge of the table. "Let me guess what happened. You two got into a fight over a girl. You lost, now you hate his guts. Oh, wait." He straightened. "That's not a guess. I _know_, because the girl you happen to be fighting over is my daughter. Small town, huh?" He flipped his hands up in a mock shrug. "Then you come in here with your accusations and no evidence-"

"You're the cops! Getting evidence is your damned job!"

"Don't you mouth off to me, boy," Lance growled. "I'll slap your ass in jail, and I don't care who your daddy is." Tommy seethed, but the detective continued on. "The SCPD is not your personal good squad. So don't you come in here thinking you can send us out to harass Queen on your say-so."

Lance, apparently finished, went to scoop up his file. Tommy rose. "I'd think you'd be a little more concerned about a murderer dating your daughter."

The detective shot him a look, his lip twisted in disgust. "Don't even try to play me, Merlyn. You think I'd let anything happen to my daughter?"

"He's already killed Sarah."

Quentin Lance went absolutely still. Tommy's stomach clenched as he realized he'd pushed it too far. The detective's eyes were like obsidian chips as he said, in a tight, controlled voice, "Get out."

Tommy ducked his head and slunk out. Great, he really blew it this time. Why was Oliver so charmed that everyone believed him to be innocent?

===_X_===


End file.
